The North
by Marinebrat25
Summary: The North is changed forever when a new house rises. Lives and relationships are altered based on a single choice. As summer ends and fall beckons the winter snows, the Great Game will change the players before the Long Night comes and the Others with it.(1st Time story; A/U; OC/Dacey Mormont; other pairings TBD)
1. Story Prologue

**Disclaimer:** _Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-Prologue—**

When people speak of the Targaryen's they think of Old Valyria, dragons, and the greatest civilization known to exist. When people speak of the southern kingdoms of Westeros they speak of chivalry, knights, culture, and beauty; both the land and people. In the free cities of Essos and the territories beyond, the people will think of the various arts, crafts and trade skills to be offered and sold. Yet, when the Kingdom of the North is mentioned or spoken of it is always with disdain or contempt; forever viewed as a backwater or savage place where children play with wild animals, women lay with dark creatures and the men are berserkers who hunger for human flesh.

Fanciful and unbiased falsehoods. The truth however, is stranger than fiction. Like all stories this one has a beginning, middle, and end; but in truth where does it begin and how does it end?

I suppose the story begins in the time when the children of the forest and the first men lived, fought, then tried to coexist with each other. As such, the first men learned much of the ancient arts of the Old Gods and the traditions of the old ways. When the Andals invaded they brought the Faith of the Seven and burned the weir wood trees in the southern kingdoms. The children feared more the evil of the Long Night to come more than man fighting each other for petty reasoning. And thus, they disappeared back into the forest, never to be seen again. With the children's disappearance the first men soon faced the Great Other and his servants. Though personally I no longer believe such stories and the wall could have been built for any number of reasons.

The wall, although a great wonder to be sure, caused a deep divide of sorts among the northern houses and the people. Long after the Starks had fought for the right to rule over the great realm King Brandon Stark, later known as Bran the builder, masterminded and oversaw the construction of the great marvel. Supposedly built to protect the realms of man from the Great Other. The rift came after those who built it were forced to live on either side. To this day no one still knows how this came about, and if they knew they're most likely dead or the truth was lost. As my houses' forebears tell it, amongst the bloodshed and battle, a young and lonely figure stood before the wall with tattered clothes rusted armor and sword.

 _"Good people of the North! I stand before each of you a free and noble individual not by birth, not by choice, and not by merit. The blood of the first men flows within me, just as it does each of you. The gift of freedom is the right of_ _ **all**_ _regardless of birth, as it should not matter in_ _ **this**_ _great land; that all of us call home, who lords over whom and who bends knee or doesn't. Too much blood has been shed over an issue that can no longer be remembered No matter what happens from this day, until the_ _ **last**_ _day of my bloodline I_ _ **swear**_ _by the old gods. Wherever others seek to divide us, we stand united. whenever evil and death seek to destroy, we fight so that others may live freely and in peace. And if tyranny and injustice is ever visited on my fellow countrymen, then_ _ **nothing**_ _will save you from_ _ **my**_ _wrath!_ _ **Iron within and iron without!**_ _"_

At first the Night's Watch were baffled. The idea that a wildling could challenge their authority and purpose so eloquently was maddening. After the declaration was made he challenged all those gathered to bring forth the Stark king to hear him out or face him in combat. The watchmen tried taunts and intimidation. To my ancestor's credit he stood his ground and taunted back, saying the king was mighty and noble indeed to fear a mere boy. When the wolf king eventually heard this combined with the fact that even as he received the message the boy had not moved. Some say it was curiosity, others will claim fury as motivation; but whatever the case the king stood face to face with the young boy. Only those two individuals will ever know what was spoken and taken to the grave. For his words and for his efforts the wildlings or free folk became north men once more. The few tribes of giants were treated equally and with respect for their skills and knowledge. Lastly, despite protests amongst the other lords, the boy was elevated to lordship with the creation of House Perturabo. Iron within, Iron without. These would eventually become the very words of my house. Words that defined not just who we are as a people but as one unified nation when forced.

Soon the question rose as to where this newfound house and its thousands of followers, that seemed to defy anything everything and anyone would call home. Within the mountain chain that nears the shores of Bear Island lied the tribes of the mountain clans. The assumption was that they were being invaded and so fought to protect their way of life. The odds proved greater then initially thought. Facing extinction or subjugation they too took to the ways of my ancestor's house. With land to call their own and enough manpower they began to craft a living within one of the mountains from the inside out. Vast halls and tunnel networks each being improved and expanded on generation after generation. Excavations deep below the roots of the mountain yielded vast veins of precious metals, both for trade and war. Above all were the great quantities of silver and diamonds. This led to great wealth that, to this day, my house enjoys leading many to call my home Silver Peak; a kingdom under the mountain. Despite the wealth power and status that my ancestor possessed he chose instead serving as advisors to the Starks who were, after all, the rulers of the North. Jealousy is an ugly thing after all.

As the centuries of years passed the region became more and more flourished with various levels of growth and expansion. Fortified villages and towns sprung forth from the influx of those from distant lands seeking new opportunities. The northerners for their part accepted the newcomers and the changes they brought with them. When priests of the seven or those of the fire god came, they were treated with a cold and icy hospitality. We may have our differences, but we still hold to our traditions and beliefs. Those of the south saw the threat of the north's potential and sought to curb its enterprises or undermine the unity of the north by playing to the fears and jealousies of the various lords. Border skirmishes and territorial disputes soon became the norm. House Manderly and House Mormont became the foremost experts in dealing with sea raiders and pirates. House Ryswell were the masters of the warhorse and everyone of their men at arms is a skilled rider. Say what you will about the land we live in, for we care not. For only we know that hard land breeds hard fighters. But before any major battles could be waged, soon a new unstoppable force would emerge.

Aegon Targaryen along with his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys invaded the kingdoms of Westeros with the intent of conquest. History of those early days leading to the infamous 'Field of Fire' battle has already been recorded; not to mention that King Torrhen Stark, while having an army equal in size and force to Aegon's, still bent the knee to save his people from the dragon's wrath. What happened next, few if any are alive now to remember the story.

First, it is known that Visenya was a true warrior. Her skill with a weapon and her fearlessness matching her beauty that any man would give to possess. Many a rumor or tale has been told that while married to her brother out of duty she sought love in the arms and beds of others. While I do not give credence to any far-fetched tales, I may be living proof that there may yet be some manner of truth; but I digress. While Stark and Aegon made history in one fashion Sigismund, my closest ancestor, and Visenya decided in secret to make theirs. As my Grandfather told me, it was a warrior's courtship where they dueled each other first with words and wits. They challenged the others' ideologies religions and ways of life. After some time, it soon escalated to a contest of skills and willpower, to see who could defeat the other in feats both small and great. Many times, money changed hands in bets made and it was said that even Aegon contributed. At first glance it was public knowledge that it was strictly a fierce rivalry, but for those that observed closely it could be said that it was perhaps the only time; save for battle, that Visenya was smiling and happy.

When the Dornish killed Rhaenys it was not Aegon that Visenya sought comfort from for he did not love her as much as he did his other sister-wife. Instead, riding her dragon Vhagar hard for the North she confessed before Sigismund her true feelings the only way she knew. On that day he delved deep into the catacombs of the mountain that none dared travel alone. When he returned to the surface he asked that Vhagar assist him in producing fire for the forge. Six days and six nights he labored using various methods to fashion his gift for a warrior goddess such as her. When he finished on the seventh day he gave her the Heirloom of our house; the Heart of the Mountain. Unlike that useless iron throne, the heart served a purpose, what that is I know not. Some weird and vague prophecy.

Although he too confessed his feelings for her he found himself torn between his many duties Sigismund knew not how best to help his newfound love. Facing the prospect of death and being branded oath breaker, he roused an army of thousands and rode beside his queen in her vengeance against Dorne. Though fierce fighters the concept of organization was foreign to the soldiers of the mountain. Still is if you ask me. Under Visenya's tutelage it became the best fighting force to walk the earth; an Iron Legion. Upon arrival between her dragon and his legion the visited horrors not seen since the field of fire. The Dornish people resorted to hit and run tactics, striking like unseen serpents. The atrocities that were inflicted would leave lasting scars of almost every kind for all those involved. The rulers of House of Martell have the words 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken' yet came close to extinction like their fellow Dornish against the wrath of Sigismund 'the Avenger'. A half giant, some would say wielding a great sword that none save he could lift with one hand. At the last battle, starving and outnumbered, he rode alone mounted on a white destrier brandishing his weapon and his muscled torso bare shining from the burning sun high above. None could challenge him, then again no one could but even after the fighting Dorne and the North would never forgive or forget.

When peace was finally and reluctantly achieved with Dorne Visenya saw fit to return to ruling alongside her brother-husband and eventually bore him a son; Maegor. Shortly thereafter Sigismund introduced his firstborn daughter Alysha to the North amongst immense joy but also whispers. What became of the two's relationship after the Dornish War no one will ever know, but it was rumored that while she was pregnant she fiercely and defiantly confronted Aegon.

 _"My dearest brother and husband. It's no secret that there is or may not have been any love between us, and you yourself once confided in me in our bed that all the love you could possess in this world would be only for_ _ **her**_ _. To this you know I bear no ill will, for I too found perhaps true love; to a northerner of all things. He and I shared secrets just as you and me. And both of my children will know me and the love I now bear for them till my_ _ **last**_ _day. But if ever a lesson be needed, then let it be_ _ **now**_ _. Should anything untoward happen to myself or the child that grows within me than I shall tell you what comes. You seem content in the southern hubris that the North breeds slow savage and stubborn individuals. Unlike the charm and supposed beauty that surrounds us they're not a_ _ **fiery**_ _and_ _ **impulsive**_ _people, for those people live in far colder climates and under threat from things far_ _ **worse**_ _than us in the far lands of the frozen wastes; or did it not occur to you as to why that great chunk of ice was created. Should they ever decide to move in any given direction, they will move with steady momentum and perseverance of a mighty avalanche; and what I_ _ **truly**_ _fear is that when it comes, it will overwhelm the entire south."_

Words said to have been spoken in confidence to Aegon before his death. Suffice it to say that for all else that may or may not have happened in the world when Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen passed from this mortal existence there was great and terrible mourning from the mountains of Silver Peak. Almost as if the rest of the world outside the northern mountains did not exist. What became of the Heart stone remains a mystery to this day. It was claimed to have been burned along with her body as is Valyrian tradition, but as myself and all my blood will tell you it was forged from dragon fire with magic of the old gods. Many have searched and found nothing but death. Sigismund himself, in his grief, ceased to live without his dragon queen. His daughter and her children would take this as a lesson that anything outside of the mountain brought nothing but pain and heartbreak.

More years would pass, and many events would take place. Some beyond our control and others not as much; the Age of Heroes, the war of the ninepenny kings, the Dance of Dragons, these events like others passed without so much as a mention of the House of Perturabo; but we have observed and prepared. Even when Robert's Rebellion took place we were there. For while others forget, the North remembers.

 _ **"Iron within, Iron without."**_


	2. Chapter 1: Winter Is Coming

**Disclaimer:** _Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-Game of Thrones I-**

Silence permeates the early hours. A slight mist of fog rises off the rolling ground. A tranquil atmosphere despite the cool temperatures of the region. The silence of the morning cannot last however, for within the distance a slow cacophony of hooves gallops towards a single objective. A lone black clad figure running away from would be pursuers on foot. Deep ragged breathes quickly escape his lips in an almost vain attempt to flee to some unknown safety. Grim desperation and despair sullies his pale features as his eyes survey his surroundings for any means of escape. A jutted pile of stones appears suddenly through the mist. Glancing quickly to see how far the riders are he takes his chance and runs for the stones. Amidst the rocks there is a very large one he manages to reach and climb just as the riders catch up and surround the ring of stones.

"And just how far did you think to get deserter?" Asked the burlier of the group. They stare at first straining their eyes and ears waiting for some routine phrase or glance that would tell them all that would be necessary. The man in black only looks down holding himself to the stone as if it protected him, all while muttering incoherently like a strange chant. With a sigh of both exhaustion and annoyance the burly leader of the men silently orders them on.

"Wait Sergeant," shouts the youngest soldier, "there's something funny about these rocks." The young man dismounts and searches the base of each stone much to the continence of his companions.

"Look son we haven't time for more of your foolishness." States the burly Sergeant. "You can go digging for rocks la—" He stops his train of thought and stares at a peculiar emblem that is partially faded by the earth and time. The young man simply not knowing any better gives his Sergeant an I told you so look. "Albrecht!" He yells with authority.

"Yes Sergeant." The man named Albrecht responds while straightening in the saddle for orders.

"You still got those special banners with you?" He asks while gazing more closely at the ring around them. "Because if you do then we need them, else this will be very difficult to explain." Albrecht quizzically looks toward his Sergeant for answers.

"Why would we have to explain, our lord is Warden of the North." He pauses for a moment stretching his arms out to emphasize his point. "These lands belong to the Starks do they not?" Even as he finished the Sergeant was on him in a flash.

"You're a stupid shit, look close at the runes!" Pointing to the ancient writing in question he carries on. "This circle implies sacred ground, a haven for lost souls like that craven bastard," pointing once again to the man in black; who was still muttering to himself, "so unless you wish to anger the gods and further piss me off then by all means carry on." The riders, both mounted and on foot, carefully proceeded to back off from the ring but maintained a visibly near enough presence. "Right then, everyone gets settled and act peaceably lest we do something stupid." The last was aimed at Albrecht who, by now, was unfurling a white banner with the sigils of every northern house to state their intent to outsiders. Turning back to the young soldier who started all this he said, "Get a message back to the Captain. Lord Stark is going to need to hear about this."

 **Winterfell**

A multitude of sounds and smells fills the main castle courtyard. The muffled roar of a mammoth or two emanates from the grassy fields tended by a shepherd giant. The hustle and bustle of a castles' staff and it's smallfolk hard at work for the days and nights ahead. There is of course another sound. A hard-twanging noise with either a whoosh or a sudden thump as it penetrates all unintended targets save one. With every miss of the young black-haired boy's arrows a groan or sigh passes his lips. An older boy, also with black hair but with a slight brooding expression, grabs another arrow from a nearby stand and passes it to the young boy.

"Go on; father is watching," he says encouragingly placing a hand on his shoulder, "mother too. Go on." Looking up the boy sees his parents on the overhead walkway, smiling in their unique way silent encouragement. Casting his gaze back to the target of his frustration he took a breath and readied himself. After several disheartening tries and hearing nothing but laughter for his efforts from the other boys he was ready to give up.

"And which of you was a marksman at ten?" This came from the deep lordly voice of the man above. The laughter ceased, and all eyes looked to it's source. "Go on Bran," he spoke softly to his son, "keep practicing." Before Bran could return to his attempts a firm and calm voice spoke up from the weapon racks off to the side.

"With your permission Lord Stark." The voice came from a young man, roughly a year or two older than the others, striding calmly to stand beside Bran. The older boys glare at him suspiciously as if asking for any excuse to fight. Their eye's full of mistrust and loathing. If this stranger with long midnight hair mismatched eyes and sharp facial tones even noticed the stares, then he gave no outward sign. Instead he pulls a black cloth from his waist belt and begins to cover Bran's eyes.

"A good bowman **sees** the shot before it happens," he states as he adjusts Bran's stance, "and a marksman **feels** the shot before he makes it." Using his hands, he guides Bran's movements to slowly and with force draw and raise the bow; angling his bow arm only a little. The others, realizing the intent, start to relax and give advice of their own; either for breathing or to remain relaxed, but otherwise silent as Bran takes the shot. A small rush of air and an almost silent thump signifying the arrow struck true. Shouts of well done clapping and cheers are heard from those who saw it. Bran is hesitant to pull the mask off, but when he peeks from under to see his moment of triumph he wastes no pretense in ripping the cloth off his face. Sharply his head looks up, eyes pleading from the one source to hear approval from. A wide grizzled smile is his reward. Before anything else can be said however, another sudden whoosh followed by a cracking of wood has everyone looking back to the target.

There for all the world to witness was a semi split arrow with another protruding from it. With a cold winter's fury Bran turns sharply behind him to look for the culprit who made the shot. Standing some yards behind him under the walkway is his youngest sister, with a bow that is bigger than her in one hand and a black mask in the other. Even as he glares his most evil look, she smiles confidently dipping her head and giving a small curtsy. Deeming the salt worse than the wound itself he drops and forsakes his gear to chase after the offender; receiving enthusiastic jeering and ribbing from the older boys and his youngest brother.

The parents, Lord and Lady Stark, watched with pride and amusement the achievements as well as antics of their children. And for a moment, with hands grasped together in love and fulfilment, they stare into the eyes of the other sharing a silent conversation that only years of marriage and time could create. The sound of loud footfalls drawing close upon them draws away their attention.

"Beg pardon my Lord," the man coughs slightly but very deep, "an outrider brings word from the scout column from this morning." He finishes while thrusting a bit of parchment into the hands of his lord. "Apologies my Lady." Nodding in respect to Lady Stark almost curtly. She accepts the gesture, but her gaze never leaves her husband. His face hardens a bit, and his eyes shift from a light color to dark. Whatever the news maybe she draws his attention back to her.

"What news? Ned." Though not intended she began to worry, which creeped ever so slightly in her words. Ned Stark raises his head to his lady wife. Not only to draw comfort from her presence but also to assuage her fears.

"A deserter of the Night's Watch has been found." As soon as it is mentioned the built-up tension visibly leaves her body. What he says next draws her cold ire once more. "Though he has been found on my lands, he resides in safety in one of the old rings."

"How is it that every time something like this appears because of **that** boy's family and it's—" She chooses not to finish that sentence, choosing instead a different subject. "At least tell me why it must be you?" Ned can only sigh as the gray-haired warrior beside him spoke in simple words.

"The law is the law, my lady." Patiently he waits for the order from his lord.

"Ser Rodrick, I want the lads saddled and ready within the hour," though it was too soon his next decision came, "and tell Bran he is to come with us. We'll meet up with the column there." With the word given the old warrior paid his respects then marched to fulfill his duties, leaving his lord to deal with an incensed wife and mother to his children.

"No," she began pleading, "no Ned. Ten years is too soon for this. What if the worst should happen?" Worry and hints of fear crept back into her eyes as well as her voice. Ned Stark would have none of it. This would be one of the few times that he knew best.

"He will not be a boy forever. He will have to face the world sooner or later, for **Winter Is Coming**." Steeling himself and brooking no further arguments he walked away leaving his wife to ponder his decision. Rather than worry or fret about the innocence of her child from this decision she chose instead to look upon her eldest and youngest sons still cleaning up the training yard. A small smile brightening her mood and features, knowing that with Rickon she still had some years to go before he would become hard like his older Robb. Both with the fiery reddish Tully hair and features; they like her oldest daughter Sansa were **her** children. Unlike them her son and youngest daughter, Bran and Arya, were the spitting image of her husband; possessing all the Stark features and tones. In her minds eye she hoped to bear at least one more child for her loving husband, believing herself not too old yet to conceive. A truly blessed and peaceful family it would be indeed were it not for the others she thought venomously.

She tilted her sight to just below her where Bran had stood as the two boys she pitied yet hated went about cleaning the discarded weapons. Of the two the oldest bore mixed features and expressions, almost as if two conflicting personalities warred for ownership of the hosts' body. His calm demeaner belied a certain wildness born from the mountains of his home. The youngest while a head shorter bore the pure image of her husband. A fact and insult she has had to suffer for as long as she was told of his existence. A stain on her husbands' honor.

As she watched them chat quietly amongst themselves laughing and smiling amiably, then slowly got more and more silent as if they both felt the weight of the world on their backs. The oldest sharply looked up and his once humorous soft expression gave way at once to the cold fury that lay beneath. The bastard child followed his companions vision till they found Lady Stark's, his looks softened and became submissive almost as if asking forgiveness for a crime he did not commit. During this brief exchange no words were spoken, for there was nothing that could be said to change opinions. Suddenly the elder boy violently spat on the ground in front of him before looking back to the Lady Stark, who felt insulted by the gesture, turning to storm off. A smirk of victory crawled on his face before turning back to his companion who bore a slight pale complexion.

"What," he asked, "you look as if someone has pissed in your morning soup." He looked confused at the young boy who looked a little green after that comment.

"How is it that you show little respect to Lady Stark?" The dark-haired boy asked. "When others would have forsaken us," he said as if reciting scripture, "she took us in and cared for us." The boy with mismatched eyes stared at his friend incredulously, shaking his as he pointed out facts.

"I've said it before Jon," he placed a hand on his shoulder, "and I'll say it again. If you constantly value, the opinions of others over your own then you will for certain be living in the shadows." Hanging his head low a brooding mask once again dons his face.

"All I want is to be a Stark like them Russ." Forlorn hope seeps into Jon's voice as he nods in the direction of Robb and Rickon who are both unaware of what has and is going on. Russ glances at the two playing while cleaning up the arrows. Whether or not Jon knows it they are similar in longing for a family.

"I know how you feel Jon." Russ started but was interrupted by Jon.

"You don't know a thing about how I feel." Jon silently hissed lightly brushing off Russ' hand from his shoulder. Catching Russ off guard with that comment may have been one thing, but the implication of what was said hurt more. "Russ," the look from his friend said it all.

"You wish to stand around moping all day? Well fuck you for trying to help." He stashes the bows back in the weapons rack and walks away without a backwards glance while Jon stands stock still. Russ being angry with Jon's brooding was nothing knew but the damage from that little exchange may have been more hurtful. Jon was aware of the circumstances of Russ residing in Winterfell was neither by choice nor request. To avoid bloodshed, he was given up as a ward of House Stark. The reason why was never said but since that day he has never known his parents or younger siblings, who like him were scattered since birth to be wards of others. Shaking his head to clear his mind Jon resigned himself to his current task knowing that to apologize to Russ would be an act of weakness. He turned from the weapon stands, a false smile on his face and proceeded to help his brothers.

 **Authors Note:** _Much appreciated to all who follow the story. Reviews, opinions, and advice are respected and will be taken into consideration. The goal for the overall story is being planned to match cannon, but characters and events will or will not alter depending on the impact of certain choices or circumstances. I have chosen the HBO series only as a reference point for sequential timeline, persons with book cannon knowledge are more than welcome to share but please be gentle; I haven't read the books yet. As a professional writer once told me at a book signing event there is no such thing as an original idea; so be prepared for certain things to be influenced from outside sources. The most important thing I am above all else trying to remain true to is the spirit that is Game of Thrones. With the 2018 Olympics going on updates will be slow. Still, I will do what I can._

 _Sincerely Marinebrat25_


	3. Chapter 2: Past and Present

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin_ _._

 **The North**

 **-Game of Thrones II-**

The ride from Winterfell was swift and somewhat tense. Ned chose not to bring household guardsmen, believing that the outrider company that awaited them would be sufficient enough for protection. Ned had made this journey only a hand full number of times, but even then, the ride was never more urgent than it was now. Of all the places the judgement of law had to be given it was sacred ground; ground that was protected by a powerful vassal lord who had a reputation for holding grudges. Sending the summons may have been unnecessary for the Warden of the North but gods be damned if he was going to cause civil war for his countrymen every time something trivial like this came up.

Several times he had to be reminded that the group had to slow its progress for a certain rider. Bran was decent enough when it came to be riding a horse yet not capable of adjusting his mounts' speed to match the others. It was after the third or fourth time that one of the elder boys showed him properly. By the time they arrived it was already past midday. The large groups of men gathered around the pillars of stone passing time away by telling tales of bravado and foolishness, games of dice and cards while betting their wages or maintaining the watch of the area as was their duty.

A lone figure in black sat on a boulder near one of the largest stones in the center of the circled area. It was neither the tattered and foul clothing he wore or the dirty and scratched up looks of his appearance that bothered him, but the behavior of the man was disturbing Ned greatly. He sat hugging his knees to his chest muttering something only gods knew what. For now, Ned had to put those thoughts aside for more pressing and important matters; such as how to deal with an unknown pair of riders on a nearby ridge. Even as Ned considered this developing situation his outrider captain came rushing toward him on foot.

"Apologies my lord," he spoke in between huffs, "they arrived sometime before you did." Jory Cassel serves House Stark loyally and almost without question. Despite hardships and various tests, he has risen through the ranks to achieve a post few can obtain. It was Ned Stark himself who gave Jory his Captaincy and Wolf Guard pelt. The Wolf Guard being the most elite force of scouts, outriders and bodyguards that House Stark has at its disposal. Right now, however was Jory's unfortunate duty to inform his lord of the unexpected pair.

"That's alright captain." Ned acknowledged looking towards the two riders overlooking them on a nearby ridge. "Keep everyone alert but show no intent; understood?" With a silent nod Jory proceeded to issue orders to his men keeping the man in black encircled still while having the rest take up guard posts near their charges. With a nod of his own to the others he dismounted from his horse with the others following suit. Upon seeing this the two distant riders galloped forward toward the Stark party only stopping when they reached a few paces from Ned and his group. At closer look his heart almost stopped beating, then proceeded to speed up faster.

"Lord Stark." The voice that spoke came from perhaps one of the most beautiful women to grace the lands of Westeros. With her raven hair flowing freely behind her slight pale skinned face she gazed upon Eddard with warm amethyst eyes. She wore a moderately heavy black and blue outfit that, while comfortable and practical, accentuated the curves in just the right places despite being a somewhat mature woman in appearance. Time and exposure to the wilds did nothing to damage her beauty in the slightest. A soft low whistle from one of the boys snapped Eddard's attention back to the here and now.

"Lady Perturabo. I thought to find Lord Perturabo in your place." He said not fully believing she stood before him once again after so many years.

"Then you know nothing my lord." She spoke casually with a soft chuckle. "My husband understands, unlike others, that women are just as capable as men in most things." Waving one of her hands to exaggerate the point. Every move by this woman was not wasted. Her beauty not just in body but in every motion and detail.

"Still, I did not expect to find **you**." Though Eddard had sorely missed having her presence around him he tried to remind himself. "Even after so long it's almost as if you haven't changed. How fares your brother?" For the first time in years Eddard wished to speak casually with an old friend from the past as he used to.

"Time can do a great many things **Lord** Stark." In a swift moment she had changed the tone of her voice suddenly like a sharp piercing blade. Ned knew immediately what would follow. "My brother fares as well as he can without the use of his sight," as she spoke Ned was recalling the memory of events that led to that decision and many others, "but thanks to my lord husband he has become what he once was again. That path was very painful and brutal for my brother to tread, but when it was finished he came out the better for it." She seemed to radiate a small sense of pride at that statement. After all it was her blood she spoke of.

"My brother was forced to sacrifice much of his former self." Gone was the pride from her voice; now came perhaps a sad longing but mixed with bitter dislike. "He did what was asked of him and more yet those who were the victors in that gods awful war thought best in judging what they thought was easy, instead of what was right." This affected Ned deeply given the many choices he was forced to make during the Rebellion. Evil whispers and thoughts crept into his mind and in his ear. He forced himself to remain calm and unreadable as he forced the evil away.

"As you might recall," he started with a calm slowness closing and opening his eyes in the process, "there were many questionable decisions made. Never were any of them easy to make given the facts." The truth of that situation then was that there were none. Most of what happened was based off hearsay and rumor. Truth be told that he, being the young fool, he was, like so many truly believed in whatever story was convenient to be labeled as truth. Whatever doubts he might have had then he was not strong enough to give voice to.

"As I said, you know nothing." Again, a humorous melody sounded from with a smile that shone on her face both perfect and beautiful except had it not been for her eyes which went from a warm color to a slight hard tone. Ned tried once more to soothe things before worse was spoken in front of others that would force him to act.

"Perhaps," once again with slow breath, "when all this is finished you and I may talk as we once did." He still longed for her in a sense. Even after all the years of marriage and having experienced the joys and hardships of fatherhood; he merely wished for pure friendship of those he once knew. Then again, a part of him always felt that had things been different this woman might have been his to call wife and mother to his children. Had things been different, his brother would have been Lord of Winterfell instead of him. So many paths less travelled, and for what reason?

At first, she stared at him expressionless and without blinking. He began to worry if what he said might have been misinterpreted or if he had overstepped. A soft sound could next be heard which increased in pitch and volume till it spilled into a full hysterical laugh. Ned glanced to see where the sound at first came from but eventually realized to where it was sourced. The woman before him, still mounted on horseback, seemed to be amused with his words and his attempts to reconnect. Sharply and forcefully the laughing ended. She looked upon him now with fiery eyes and cold fury. Gone forever the woman he might have once known. In her place was someone far more cold and dangerous.

"You forget yourself my lord." Her voice took on an almost soft harshness to it as she spoke to him. "I have been happily married all these years to possibly the one person I never imagined being with for the rest of my life." As she spoke her back straightened to give her a more imposing stature than necessary. "Were it not for **you** I would be able to enjoy the wonders of motherhood," a small hint of sadness crept in, "except I have been forced to scatter them to the winds upon birth allowing them to be raised gods know where by strangers; never truly knowing where or from whom they came from." Her vision flickered briefly from Ned to one other behind him. He had no reason to turn knowing who it was she spoke of. She inhaled a calming breath, closing her eyes and forcing the unshed tears to vanish. "No, my lord. It would not be proper for me to be seen in your company. Don't you agree?"

The words she said were true, but only because of one point of view. Once again honor and duty demanded a price. The truth of that was if he had to do it over he would still have done it despite intentions. A cough from behind drove him from his inner thoughts. Turning to Ser Rodrick he nodded and with an authoritative look and tone he spoke. "Then perhaps it is best we conclude our business here."

Taken aback by his switch in tone and look she still managed to recover without missing a beat. "You know the law of the stones Lord Stark," condescendingly lecturing, "this man despite his crimes and faults is under the old protections." She paused to let the implications sink in. "If it is his life you seek, then give something up in exchange."

"He swore an oath my lady." He stated simply.

"Do not speak to me about oaths **Quiet Wolf**!" Even as his own anger was slowly building within him hers was already bubbling to the surface. "This ancient law has been in existence since the children walked the earth with the first men. These laws were here before us and will be long after we are dust." She emphasized her point by thrusting her finger at the various stones. Knowing the person before him would not backdown without a fight, but hoping to avoid needless bloodshed, he strode to within arm's reach of her mount. The quick and sudden movements he made startled the horse and her companion; hands quickly reached for weapons in preparation for the impending conflict. With cold and silent anger, he growled at her.

"Do not presume to speak to me of the **laws** woman. A **Dornish** woman will never know what it means to be of northern heritage." In Eddard's mind this was not the type of confrontation he wanted but gods damn him and his ancestors if he was going to yield to a woman of Dorne without a fight. Clearly the same thought must have run through her mind as in one swift and fluid motion she dismounted her steed closed the remaining distance between them and finally with an almighty slap to Ned's face proceeded to end this mummer's farce.

"I am aware of **my** heritage Stark," she quietly hissed with venom before continuing, "the North is not the only country whose people do not forget; nor forgive." The tears that she long held back since this heated exchange began now flowed freely down her cheeks in rivers. "I have seen firsthand the savagery that northerners claim does not exist, and bards sing tales of both great heroism, but also great cruelty or does the North not remember their part in the Seven Stars Massacre many years ago." It was an incident that happened long fore Ned was born. It was during the infamous Dance of Dragons civil war. Cregan Stark was promised a contract of marriage into the royal family for his allegiance and support against Queen Rhaenyra's half-brother King Aegon II. It was the second time that the North marched to war in the lands of southern Westeros. In the two years the war of succession took place more would die at the hands of northern legionnaires then in previous conflicts that came before it.

"You and I may have once known each other in the past Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, but too much has occurred between us for anything else to exist. So, as much as I enjoy talking about all this I'll ask only once more. Leave this man and return to Winterfell," she glanced behind him then back threateningly, "else you and yours will not be returning at all."

"You speak bravely before your lord with no weapon and only a single rider as escort." Spoke the young Greyjoy heir seeking perhaps to intimidate the lady placing his sword hand to the hilt of his weapon whilst doing so. She, on the other hand, seemed to ignore his outburst choosing instead to stare only into Lord Starks' eyes without movement or change of facial expression.

"How dare you show such disrespect to your liege-lord, insult and dishonor my country and home; then finally threaten my family!" snarled Robb, who was not pleased at all, practically hot blooded because of the accusations and insults she had unleashed on his father and family name. As Ned turned to silence both boys and prevent them from interfering a bird whistle, almost like a sparrow's call, sounded next to him. The sight that greeted his and everyone else was like something from one of Old Nan's stories. Quickly and with urgency field cloaks covered in grass, pine, mud and rock were thrown off or aside revealing men and women covered in various forms of mud and dirt leathers. Those closest to the guardsmen had knives or short blades drawn or positioned in vital areas. Those further away wielded short bows for stealth and piercing power. The most shocking was seeing Russ and Jon draw their blades simultaneously and point them at each other, both recognizing that if things escalated then one or the other had to die for their respected families.

Bran looked neither afraid or intimidated at the situation but seemed confused as to why the situation had gotten this far. He did not wish to see his fellow countrymen kill each other over something so trivial in nature yet was aware that as a child of the North, especially a Stark of Winterfell, he had to learn that there were certain beliefs and traditions that could not be swayed or changed to match the times. Disturbing the tension of the moment was a soft chuckle of both amusement and frustrated annoyance.

"Such foolish boys," she whispered softly for Ned to hear, "whatever gave them the impression I was alone?" These were, without a doubt in his mind, the Stone Sentinels. Men and women of the North who chose to forsake their liege houses' and devote themselves to protecting holy places such as this one. As a child such tales of these warriors was legendary; to see even a fraction of what they could do and live was an achievement. But they're sudden arrival had shocked one person more so then all present.

 **Circle of Judgement, Stone of Execution**

Craven. Deserter. Oathbreaker. In the grand scheme of things these mere words while important to most were not important to the now half empty shell of a man who's now sitting on a sacred stone with his arms clutched to his chest, head bowed, and eyes closed tight. Hoping to wash away the filth of his journeys, wash away his sins, or perhaps wash away that which he has seen. He hopes purely beyond hope that nothing and no one can harm him in the stones. His mother always told him the story.

" _When the snowstorm gathers, and the cold winds blow, only the Stone Circles of the children will bring light to an everlasting darkness. Whisper your prayers and steel your nerves, for the blue eyed wights come."_

Blue eyes; blue, piercing, ice colored eyes that shook even the most hardened of individuals to their souls. He always heard nothing but tales of how the wights walked as if covered in a snowy mist, their physical features always covered or shrouded; save for the eyes. He shivered once more for the thousandth time. Not from cold winds, freezing conditions or lack of warmth. This shiver felt like pure terror. Even as a hard man, who has seen and done things that forced him to journey to the Night's Watch, the things that he claimed to have seen terrified him so badly it forced him to forget oaths' and flee southwards. The further south he could get the better, and still it would not be enough to escape the eyes.

The eyes; they were there when they slaughtered his brothers of the watch during a patrol. They were there when the bodies were piled in strange formations. They were there as they chased him, howling and shrieking incoherently. Even when he reached the safety of the wall and its wards the eyes followed him. After giving his report to the Lord Commander and the Maester that night he saw the eyes in his sleep. Day or night the eyes were there. Escaping the brotherhood from Castle Black was one thing, avoiding the patrols of the various regional lords, though difficult, was not impossible. No matter where he was or what he was doing the eyes followed him. He soon lost track of time or distance. His sole mission soon became one of cleansing himself of what he saw.

The eyes; they surrounded him even as he sat there on the moss covered stone of the circle. While the soldiers and sentinels seemed poised to kill each other for his meager self. And the two most important individuals were at each other's throats for different perceived insults. Fools. The true enemy is still out there, and they're coming to kill us all; the Wight walkers. The walkers. THE WALKERS.

" **WALKERS!** " The power of my voice breaks the silence around me that I was not even aware of. All eyes turn in my direction as if noticing me for the first time. "I saw them!" They stare at me in disbelief with each word. "The white walkers with ice blue eyes, even as you fight amongst yourselves the true enemy comes!" In the silence that followed I lose feeling in both my legs collapsing back down onto the stone I was sitting on. Funny, I don't remember standing on my feet. Curling my knees together to my chest I ignore everything going on around me. Looking up briefly I notice that everyone has ignored me and my words completely. All but two that is, they're eyes boring into me as if searching for something. I know not what else to give.

Once more I drop my gaze and close my eyes oblivious to all around me. Some time passes, I know not how long, but rough leathery hands haul me up and away from my stone of rest. They drag or carry me away to a more different looking stone. The grooves and creases cut into it suggest something more final than the peace of the previous. Nearing the stone my resolve hardens, my spirit calms and all that terrified or worried me disappears with each step. The sound of steel escaping it's sheathe snaps my head up to my surroundings. Stark soldiers make the clear majority of those gathered, the Lord stands close to the stone opposite myself wielding his family's legendary great sword Ice, his children and what looks to be his squire; no, he's iron born, so his ward standing not far from him.

"Lord Stark," I begin knowing soon what's to come, "as warden you must prepare the North for what is to come." Briefly he stares at me possibly skeptically, but still I carry on. "I know I dishonored my brothers and abandoned my watch, but when my family is told; tell them I didn't die a coward, please." Whether it's my words or the pleading look in my eyes I will never know, but he softens his features before nodding to his men. The soldiers force me to my knees placing my neck exposed in the groove of the stone. Then the words were spoken.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon first of his name; King of the Andals, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm." There is slight pause as if he gathers courage for what comes. "I, Eddard of the House Stark; Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

With the sentence given no other words need be spoken. The last and only thought that appears in my mind is not the vision of the eyes, but my mother. She is as I remember her when I was a little boy, her arms reaching out to me and to cradle my head to her chest telling me how much she loved me. I embrace her for all I can just as steel sings through the air bringing the silence of peace.

 **Wolfswood**

When traveling silence is both a blessing and a curse. This journey was neither and both at the same time. The company of Wolf Guards were silent and loyal but also vigilant and wary of impending danger especially considering what took place at the Stones. Their pride must still be stung after that embarrassing ambush by the sentinels. Although to be fair the stones' guardians remain in hiding unless their charge becomes endangered; the guardsmen should have prepared better but still had no chance against such tactics. Bran, for his silence, was contemplating the lesson that he had to bear witness to and all that entailed. The hardest and most difficult of silences to be sure.

"What troubles you young Stark?" I inquire trotting my horse forward to match his stride and ask.

"Nothing." His answer is both dismissive and disconcerting. His gaze is fixed not on the road, the soldiers, the surroundings or his family up ahead. It's the grim look a Stark has when brooding or dwelling on thoughts of worry. For someone so young, he should not have to worry about things.

"I've known you since you were born pup," the slight amusement in my voice barely gets his attention, "I can tell when something is troubling you; so, what is it?" He scrunches his nose and furrows his brow in further thought. A funny look on a boy his age but the serious he tries to convey nearly keeps me from chuckling or laughing. Nearly.

"The things that I heard and bore witness to, the idea that the walkers were seen." He pauses as if possibly remembering something. "Old Nan's stories that used to frighten us, I thought they were just that; stories." He turns his head swiftly with his face covered in mixed confusion pleading looks in his eye. "Was any of it true?"

"Those who have seen and traversed the frozen wastes see many things." I try to explain leaving my own thoughts on the matter be. "Many a brave individual for one reason or another has journeyed beyond the wall in search of something. Whatever is there is enough to drive anyone mad."

"So," he turns his head back down to look at his hands forlorn, "the man was lying." It surprised Russ a little. He was expecting Bran to be more curious than this. The fact of his statement was just that and not a question was beginning to concern him.

"He was there for many years Bran," he turns slowly to look at me again, "and you know it is not just to speak ill of the dead." The reminder was more for my benefit than it was for the little lord, but it seemed to have a desirable effect as Bran turned to look at his family ahead than to his gloved hands.

"Father said that he broke his oaths." The challenge, though small, was still noticeable in his tone. Even after Bran saw the man beheaded he still had questions. Even unspoken ones as well.

"Lord Stark says many things." No matter how I try to hide it the bitterness seems to find it's way into my words whenever Lord Stark is mentioned. I suppose I could never forgive him for what he had done.

"And what would **you** say?" This time he chose not to look at me. He stared at the back of his father as if weighing the measure of the man and determine if he was just or false. Finally deciding that the boy needed some serious talk I signal to the sergeant next to me and slowly my horse and Bran's come to a halt at the side of the road. A small group of soldiers breaks from the column to safeguard us, yet respectful enough not to pay mind to our conversation. Adjusting in the saddle I tell a portion of what I would say.

"I would say that you need not worry about what others tell you. Seek the truth for yourself and damn the consequences." Rodrik Cassel passes by us with a curious look at my comment but chooses to say nothing before riding on to Lord Stark and telling him that we have stopped. Bran's gaze never strayed from the direction of his father, becoming more accusatory with his next words.

"So, father was wrong then for all he did? During the Rebellion it was said he did honorably." I now find myself in the strangest of places. As much as I dislike Lord Stark and possibly hate him to the point where I might encourage strangers to do likewise, I now defend him from his own children who know not the true form that is their father as opposed to the stories of him that others speak of.

"Do not misunderstand me Bran, your father loves you." Quickly and gently I grab onto his shoulder shaking just enough to look somewhat blankly at me. "He will do everything and anything to keep his family safe. What happened during the Rebellion happened before any of us were born. Nothing you, myself, Robb, Theon, or Jon; nor anyone else for that matter, do or say now will change any of it." I spoke with a conviction that I didn't think myself capable of.

"Is that why the Lady was sad then, because of what father forced her to do?" The same level of conviction in his own tiny voice was like a punch to my guts. Here now was a lad who not only had to deal with the ways of the world but also wanted something about his father to be real. Loss of innocence was a terrible thing to deal with. "What did she say to you Russ? What made her so sad to see you?" Russ hadn't the willpower to tell him.

 **Stone of Execution, Overlook**

 _The summer's breeze was gentle and strong. Banners fluttered wildly from the gusts but not swiftly were they to cause discomfort. The mornings dew seemed to fly off the grass with each gust and horses grazed in content nearby. The animals were used to the smell of death and tension, but that scene took place at the headstone at the bottom of the hill that Russ overlooked. His mind was full of mixed emotions and thoughts. The person responsible for all this stood behind him cloaked in furs with a look of longing in her eye. Silence at first, but then with each rustle of movement from the grass the desire of explosion seemed to reach a crescendo. No longer bearing it the person made to take a step._

 _"_ _ **Don't**_ _." The one word though just barely above the wind and a whisper was harsh and firm enough to prevent this person from performing whatever action she intended. A few more moments of tense silence passed before Russ dared speak again._

 _"Just tell me one thing," his voice trembling with slight emotion with each word, "when you were forced to give us up did you give up loving us as well?" Some might call this a silly question or say that there might be better things to ask in a situation like this, but Russ felt like nothing came to his mind even as his heart and soul screamed and cursed a thousand and one different things that may have been better or more choicely. Unless others were separated at birth and then reunited with their birth mother they just could not comprehend what was conflicting within Russ Perturabo at that moment._

 _"When all of you were born; almost at the same time, it felt like the world for me was going to end." Russ remained silent choosing instead to hear a story he never heard before, especially from his mother. "The Maester and midwives all told me that having a set of twins was a rare occurrence, but to have_ _ **four**_ _and at the same time was; as they described, a miracle blessed by the gods. For myself I cared little of such importance. The mere fact that squirming within my womb was life had me in tears of joy firm in the belief that I now carried life and wanted to shower them in love." She sighed in relaxation that her words were possibly influencing me; truth be told they were._

 _"When I first met and then married your father there was no love between us. Dorne and the North have been bitter enemies since the Wars of Aggression. Never had I truly and utterly felt alone and powerless in a land that was foreign to me, whose people were raised on beliefs and customs that shunned outsiders; mistrusting them altogether. Stories of Silver Peak were even worse. All that I was taught ran anathema to what I witnessed and experienced, but all were suspicious or hostile to me. After all, my brother and my family fought for Rhaegar Targaryen the last dragon." As she was speaking she slowly took small shuffled steps towards me. The hesitation that I felt in each step seemed like a personal fear that I might not accept her somehow._

 _"Someday I may tell you or yet even show you the wonders of the mountain that is your home; but not today. The very first night I cried myself asleep believing that I would either die by blade or by neglect and despair. I remember waking from a restless sleep and stepping onto the overlook balcony of my room gazing at the deep chasm of black that seemed to never end. As I stared off into that great abyss that welcomed me into oblivion a warm and rough hand gently took mine own and a voice called out to me." No doubt the southern influence of embellishment but as far as stories went this was more pleasing then stories of Starks and Tully's._

 _"Suffice it to say that your father saved me that night and we spent each night since together. Even after I began carrying the four of you, your father told me that the oldest; you blood of my blood, would resemble the best and the worst of us at once. He said that when your time came you would do it fighting and cursing. And gods be good, you did." She chuckled remorse her voice starting to break. "You screamed and cried ceaselessly, none there could calm you down in anyway. When your first sister was born you stopped. Not a sound passed from you or her, almost as if you had cried for her just as she was silent for you and no one knew why it was. They placed you both in your father's arms and slowly opened her eyes and smiled, almost as if she recognized him as her sire. You however never opened your eyes, you simply slept in peace knowing your other half was safe and near."_

" _With his firstborn son and daughter safe in his embrace no one dared to separate them, they were so perfect an image." My vision filled with unbidden tears, but I quickly blinked them away hoping that she would not notice. Growing up I always felt an emptiness within that nothing and no one in Winterfell could fill. A part of me knew I was missing my other self. "Time seemed to stretch for eternity when in truth it was a handful of minutes that your younger siblings came both at once. The room became quiet, the pain was intense and throughout the whole experience I imagined that this was how I died; giving birth to my children. Within that dreamlike haze the pain ceased, the soft coos of two babes in my ears and I beheld the faces of two babes swaddled in the same cloth soon followed by their elder twins." Soft sobs were now noticeable in between some of her words._

" _All I remember of that moment was looking at those faces and saying-"_

" _No matter who or what you become, you will always be my children." The words flowed from my mouth before I realized I was speaking. "Know me as your mother," my tears flowed freely with no concern of thought, "for I will never stop loving you." These words always came to me in dreams for as long as I could recall._

 _Whatever else I felt, whatever anger or hurt I wanted to rage at her for, all of it melted away beneath the rays of love that she expressed. I turned away from the events down below at the headstone and instead buried my head into her warm embrace that awaited me. It felt like weakness exposing myself like this, but within those long lost motherly arms the past emptiness and hurt no longer mattered. I forgave her just as she did me, and it was enough for now. A distant song of a sword being swung brought both of us to the here and now as we remembered the brief time that we had. She was the first to break the embrace we shared, pulling my head with both hands to face down at her all while trying to regain her own composure._

" _No more tears now my son," she said fighting the tears away, "there is little time left and there is much to tell you." While she was speaking I tried desperately to memorize every detail about her, fearing it to be the last I would see her._

 **Wolfswood II**

"You didn't answer the question Russ." Jon's voice was a shock to my senses as I wasn't aware that he had decided to join us. His horse was breathing heavily which means that the column had travelled some distance before he was sent to find us. The tone in his voice was emotionless save for his eyes. The black accusatory grey filled eyes that pretty much told Russ to stay away from influencing Bran. Russ chose to ignore him however and guided his own mount to return to the column.

"Would you have done it," he spoke when I was near enough only to hear, "would you have really killed me Russ?" His gaze was fixed on Bran, but his voice matched his look from afore. I stop next to hear my reply so that there was no misunderstanding between us moving forward.

" **Iron within, Iron without**." Cold monotonous intent filled every syllable of those words. I won't deny that watching his reaction go from anger, to anxiety, then dread as no doubt Bran heard my words as well. The Starks choose words of warning and of what is to come. My words are of what I am and what I will always be. Letting that be the end of it I kick my horse into gallop and ride off, not yet realizing what's to come.

 **Author's Note:** _I did not think I would take this long between chapters. Still, I will keep going till it is finished. Thank you to those who have either favorited or follow this story. Please share and/or review the story. Criticism is appreciated, although I worry that I got anything right. For those who will stay with this till the end please know that as a reminder I think faster than I type/write so there are times when I plan out sequences that won't happen till A Clash of Kings or Storm of Crows for example. Please bear with me, that's all I ask._

 _Sincerely Marinebrat25 (2019 update)_


	4. Chapter 3: Signs and Wolfs Blood

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-Game of Thrones III-**

In the lands of Westeros, and indeed the known world over, signs of portents and omens are regarded with awe, suspicion, and skepticism. In the North sigils of animals and great feats are used constantly either in runic scripts, storytelling or even the banners of various houses. One thing that all share is the belief that even the mundane can be perceived as an omen or a sign of things to come. To say that one such sign was presented grotesquely in front of Brandon Stark could have been argued vehemently and with words that his mother would have most certainly disapproved of. After the day's exciting turn of events, revelations, experiences and most recently the brief conversation he had with Russ almost nothing else at this moment should surprise him.

Lying on it's side several yards in front of him in the middle of the road was an animal carcass. At first Bran didn't know what kind of animal it was or what to make of it, but upon closer inspection; despite the horrific smell emanating from it, the body had once been a great stag of immense size and proportion. It was certainly far larger than most of it's kind although Bran never went on hunting trips outside the castle grounds and would not know truly. His best guess would be that Hodor, their half-giant manservant, could look the creature square in the eye at full height. What would have been a very magnificent and awe-inspiring thing of nature was now a maggot and worm filled beast. It's guts and innards fully exposed as if they were torn open, it's beautiful coat mangled and shredded with dirt mixed with dried blood; and portions of it's great pronged antlers broken in several places.

Bran gazed around the area searching for his father and older brother. All around the immediate vicinity were guardsmen in wolf pelts with weapons drawn on alert or tending to the horses for rest. One such guardsman notices Bran and strides up to him. "Your Lord Father and the others followed suspicious tracks that way," he turns away facing a spot off the treaded path and points, "I will be escorting you and Jon Snow."

Bran nods his head yet feels the extra protection unnecessary, despite events to the contrary. The scattered sounds of birds only provide an unsettling atmosphere to their surroundings. The man starts off on the path in which the others have tread while Bran and Jon follow a few yards behind. Bran is curious to a fault, without question. Whatever lies ahead certainly has piqued his interest, especially to cause such grievous wounds to the remains at the road. Yet he still worries about all that he has been told and witnessed firsthand. His talk with Russ left him less with answers and more with questions. The impression he left Jon also has him troubled. Of the four older boys Jon has always been cautious, or at least the most reluctant to jump into trouble. However, whatever he and Russ said to each other was enough to scare Jon greatly, but nothing truly frightening; or so Bran believes.

As they continued to follow the Guardsman through the foliage of the wood Bran's mind began to wander. How cloistered yet carefree his life had been, running and climbing amongst the length and breadth of Winterfell. Even before he could understand why, he sought to make his father proud of his achievements. His mother was for a time the center of his world. She would tell him stories of knights, damsels, heroes of great renown and of her home in the Riverlands. The stories of chivalry, honor and knightly virtue that were told and impressed upon them seemed; or at least felt, like an adventure worth experiencing and having bards sing of their similar feats and deeds. All that is good and wonderful of the south was told and expressed through Bran's mother.

When he became old enough to walk, jump, climb, and run was the time that his father taught him what it meant to be northern. The history, culture; and ways of the sword, spear, shield and axe. What it meant to hunt fish and survive in the wilderness. These are things that while not as interesting or grand like the south, but practical and still just as important in the land of his birth. His lessons always seemed to bore him to no end, a trait that he and his sister Arya happen to share. Escaping was always easy while getting away wasn't so much.

Of all the important personages in his life thus far Russ Perturabo is perhaps the one constant no matter the circumstance. Russ is a firm believer in learning from action and that every decision has consequences big or small. Case in point was the time he assisted Arya in pulling a prank on their older siblings. Whether it was or became funny was moot, it was the idea that the mess they caused would have been an embarrassing situation in front of the other lords who just happened to arrive that week for an annual summit meeting. No one knew how best to teach, train; and in that situation, discipline them.

It was the first time he ever heard his parents argue. Granted it was behind closed doors and in the sanctity of their bedroom, but a first for him nonetheless. Russ and Jon happened upon him overhearing the arguing and took pity upon him; to some degree or another. Whatever Russ' motivation he took it upon himself to teach Bran everything he needed to know about the north. Sometimes gently when he was interested and sometimes painfully when he tried to run wild as Robb calls it. His mother was furious when she learned of this arrangement and threatened Russ a long and painful end should he continue. Russ showed no fear yet also showed no respect either when speaking to his mother. It wasn't till Bran came to his mother's defense that Russ reluctantly backed off. When his father learned of that exchange his fury was as cold as the land itself.

Bran shivered a little in recollection of that moment. His father standing before him, a tall imposing figure with an aura of power and authority. The features upon his face and the language of his body's movements were void of emotion, only cold expressionless eyes. Say what you will of Bran's father, it was the eyes you noticed first. Whether in jest, in love, or in anger the eyes of a Stark lord were noticeable. This very look is what he saw during the conversation between his father and the lady. At first, they showed courtesies with each other as if they were long lost acquaintances. As things progressed though the nature of their conversation became both heated and cold with differing attitudes towards one another. When she had slapped his father, he felt strangely conflicted and yet amazed. Only his mother possessed the will and strength to stand up to his father in that manner. By the same token Bran has been told and taught that for anyone to strike someone of higher social status bears severe punishment.

About punishment brings up the fact that while she was talking she glanced at Russ continuously. Perhaps he was the only one to notice but while everyone's sole focus was the execution's aftermath he stole a quick glance to see Russ at his most vulnerable; reunited with his mother. It is ultimately why Bran feels so confused. Is his father to be considered any less honorable for doing what he believed to be right? Is the lady-mother of Russ to be faulted for who or what she is, simply because of her familial heritage or wanting to do anything to see her children again? And what would truly happen if Jon and Russ should find themselves on opposing sides? These questions and possibly more cause Bran to challenge almost everything he has been taught at this point. The greatest of which being whether the deserter spoke true of what he saw.

Bran shifted his footing on the trail slightly, just as he did he glanced around him to see whatever else might have caused the incident back at the road. It was then he noticed something. He couldn't put it in his mind what it was or what it could be; he just knew it was something.

"What is it?" Jon asked suddenly aware that Bran not only stopped but was searching or listening for some hidden danger. Slowly the sound of his half-brother's sword being drawn pierced the surrounding silence. The guardsmen escorting them also became aware and instinctively drew his own weapon, moving to cover his smaller charge in case of attack. "What is it Bran?!" Jon again asked worried of who might appear to do harm upon his little sibling. Bran looked at him incredously.

"Listen!" A moment or two passed between them. Bran swiveled his head left and right slowly to hear, even as Jon looked at him straining his hearing for whatever caught Bran's attention. Only thing that permeated the air was the endless silence.

" _Help us…"_

Deciding to trust his own feelings and not wanting to abandon someone to fate Bran took off at a run through the wooded brush. Shouts from Jon and the guardsmen calling to him, but not even worth his focus. Despite his youthful age and small frame his body, thanks to his northern style tutelage, was of wiry muscle. He ran like nothing was holding him back or hindering his movements. His focus was more driven to find what called out. The speed was perhaps like nothing Bran had felt he could achieve but it mattered not to him.

" _Help us…"_

Bran heard it clearer and thought he was approaching the end. With a final burst he sprung from the brush nearly tripping over himself to stop. He was hunched over, his palms resting on the points of his knees for support. He felt in that moment like he had run for several leagues so out of breath was he.

" _Another has come…"_

" _He will help us…"_

" _The little one shows fierceness…"_

With the voices being as clear as crystal Bran now realized there was more than one being spoken. The sounds of which were like whispers on the wind. Forgetting the burning sensation in his lungs and stinging pains in his muscles he stood tall and walked cautiously to the source. Taking in the view of the surrounding area showed that it was a peaceful clearing of sorts. The air felt clean and open as opposed to the dense closeness that permeated the surrounding woods. The sunlight was partially able to pierce the spaces between branch and leaf giving a dew-like glow effect upon the ground. A running stream of water flowed strongly nearby. Nearby were his eldest brother Robb, his father's ward and captain Theon Greyjoy and Jory Cassel respectively, Ser Rodrick Cassel and a few guardsmen. He did not linger further on them beyond the simple fact that they were near and not moving close. Bran at first wondered at this till a stray thought entered his mind, where was Russ from the party; moreover, where was his father?

Just as he thought it he saw down by the stream the two very personages who had importance in his life. Russ appeared to be standing behind and to the left of his liege lord with his blade drawn pointed down and his head bowed in reverence. His father was kneeling and stroking something with his hand. That something was an animal of tremendous size and toned girth. It's white-grey fur was coated in places with blood, some of it dried while some was old but still wet. Cuts, scratches and gashes were intermixed with the blood. As Bran approached the beasts' size became more pronounced in almost all aspects in relation thereto. _"What manner of creature could have brought this thing low,"_ he silently asked himself, however he almost immediately noticed a broken protrusion buried deep in the neck of the beast. _"So, this is what killed the great stag on the road,"_ he confirmed to himself. The creature's muzzle and forepaws stood as evidence to a scene long since played. Bran turned briefly at rustled movement nearby behind him with Jon and the guard escort huffing and nearly spent from running. He gazed up to Russ, both nodding to each other in silence to confirm only their presence to the other. Bran moved as quiet as he could to his father's side where, even kneeling next to his son, he was a head taller than Bran.

"What is it father?" Bran asked still awed and sad of the mighty creature's fate.

"It's a freak of nature my lord," cried Theon from where he was standing. Bran furrowed his brow a little at this seemingly solitary response.

"Whatever it is," Ser Rodrik added, "it doesn't belong here." A mixed response came from those around the old arms master, mostly in the affirmative. Most of the guardsmen seemed hesitant in answering for fear of what choice they might give voice to.

"A direwolf of the North is no freak of nature Greyjoy." Russ commented without moving or looking at Theon, a slight hint of aggression in his tone. "And last I recalled, Master Cassel, that the direwolves were welcomed anywhere within the North."

"Be that as it may Russ," Robb joined in trying to keep things civil, "ever since the rebellion there has been practically no sign of them." He shrugs his shoulders looking back to the wolf before us knowing that the great northern houses; the Starks especially, tried to coax or tame a pack or two into bonding. Since that war all have failed to do so. In ancient times the Stark kings all had bonds with direwolves. Even after Aegon conquered the seven kingdoms and the creation of the wardens, the Starks still possessed the ability to bond with their sigil namesakes. Now the wolves no doubt feel that none are yet worthy of such trust.

"And now Robb, there are five wolf pups." Jon at last speaking after catching his wind. At this perhaps Bran, and possibly the others, at last noticed the soft and small sounds of whimpering underneath the sounds of the nearby stream. Jon moved next to bran and knelt to rummage the wiggling balls of fur near the teats. "Would you like to hold one?" A simple question that without waiting for an answer proceeded to pass one of the lighter colored pups to Bran. As Bran held the pup it seemed bigger than normal. It stared at him and he it.

" _Pack-mate…"_

There it was again. This time Bran had never felt surer than ever he might have been before about anything. The little pup nuzzled and licked Bran's face in affection. He could not be anything else but happy, yet he did not know truly the reason why. A gnawing fear for the little pups began to grow in his heart and mind.

"What will happen to them father," his going from the pups to the mother, "now that their mother is dead?" His eyes shone with hope that his father wouldn't condemn them a fate they couldn't survive on their own. No words were said, no movement was made; only sounds were the pups and the natural landscape around them. All eyes were focused solely on Bran's father for a decision. His right hand still rested on the mother wolfs' neck behind the left ear. Every other second or two scratching it absentminded. A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"What happened to you Storm Runner?" His gruff voice was gentle and soft, near close to a whisper as it was. Bran now wanted more answers for this, though felt that the pups were more pressing a matter than his curiosity. If Jon or Russ heard what might have been said they gave no sign. With a sudden force of movement and effort Lord Stark pulled forth the horned protrusion from the mother's neck. He stared deeply at the broken object for but a moment before casting his gaze sadly to Bran. "I'm sorry Bran," he started as he began getting up and walking away, "better a quick and merciful end, then a slow and painful death."

Theon seizing the initiative in following his lord's orders drew a knife from his waist belt. He quickly made his way over to where the pups were.

" _Help us…"_

" _Man-fish no friend…"_

" _Help us…"_

" _Must help siblings pack-mate…"_

" _Help us…"_

"Right," Theon spoke as he reached forward to grab the pup from Bran, "give it here."

"No!" Bran had shouted and recoiled close to the other pups to shield them from the Greyjoy ward. With a determined look Theon went to carry out his mission but was abruptly stopped by Robb's hand on his knife arm.

"Put away your blade at once Greyjoy." Robb stated in an authoritative tone. Shrugging his lord's son's hand off his arm he made his opinion well known.

"I take orders from your father," he growled squaring up to Robb, "not you."

"Enough, both of you!" The voice was loud enough to pierce the tension and catch everyone's attention. "I have made my decision, now carry out your duty." Lord Stark turned back from them to continue back the way they all came. A small voice like his own would not be denied however.

"Is this just father?" Bran squared himself upright. Still standing in front of the wolf pups with one cradled to his chest he drew strength from something he was not aware he possessed. His father at those words turned sharply to his son.

"You asked me not long ago why the deserter from the watch had to die by your hand. Our way is the old way, you taught us, that he who passes the sentence must swing the sword." At first his words stumbled a little but the feeling within him steadied his will and helped him give voice to his father. "The deserter broke the laws of men and you delivered the king's judgement; that was your duty. When the king called for the banners during the Greyjoy uprising," Theon unnoticeably winced at that, "that was your duty. The father I know, and love taught his children that in the North a Stark's **duty** is to ensure the safety of **all** those under our charge and care. **The North Remembers**." All those of northern blood straightened at the mention of those words, but Bran was not done yet.

"The direwolf is the sigil of my house. For a time direwolves have lived, fought, and died alongside Starks. Blood of the first men flows through me; as does wolf blood." A slight pained expression appeared on his father's face. "You told us stories once of your own direwolf, Night Shadow. How he grew up beside you when you were my age, fought beside you in the rebellion, only to die saving your life at the trident." A tense silence proceeded only for it to be broken by Russ, who hadn't moved or said a word since before this moment. He strode forward, still with sword drawn and point down, over to where Lord Stark stood and knelt.

"With your permission my lord," he spoke reverently with his head bowed, "I offer you my blade." With his weapon level on both palms he raised it above his head, calmly proffering it to his liege-lord. Bran was now worried that his words would not sway his father but encourage him to do the deed himself. His father's face became an undecipherable mask of emotion. His arm slowly outreached to the blade's hilt as if warring within himself to do what is right. Before his fingers barely touched, Jon gave voice once again.

"Lord Stark," his voice was calm and even as he spoke, "I wish only to remind you that there are five pups. One perhaps for each of the Stark children. And as young lord Brandon has stated," Bran could now tell that even though he was on Bran's side he did not wish to be seen by others showing favoritism in a father-son argument, "the direwolves are the sigil of your house my lord. It is perhaps a _**sign**_ my lord," he emphasized cautiously, "that they were meant to have them."

" _Smell fear…"_

" _Smell pride…"_

" _Smell anger…"_

"Father." Bran once more got his father's attention, only this time a small smile slipped through the cracks before the lord's mask once again appeared.

"You will feed them yourselves, you will train them yourselves, and should they die you will **bury** them yourselves." He turned marching off with a couple guardsmen, Jory and Rodrik Cassel at his heels. Before reaching the clearing's edge he shouted over his shoulder, " **And let that be the end of it!** "

Theon and Russ sheathed their respective weapons to assist Robb and Bran with the remaining pups. The guardsmen nearby ever vigilant for threats against their charges. Bran turned to leave but saw his half brother still kneeling where he was looking forlorn. Bran gently placed his off hand on Jon's shoulder, "What about you?" asking quiet like.

"I'm not a Stark." Was his only response. Jon threw his head indicating the direction they needed to go. "Get on." Bran turned to leave, and Jon stood to do the same.

" _Don't go…"_

" _Mustn't leave…"_

"Wait." Bran said tilting his head as if he heard something. Jon was smiling a little, no doubt thinking what now little wolf lord. That is when his faced turned curiosity written across his features. He walked close to the bed of moss nearest the stream, and soon discovered what he was looking for. He bent down and slowly pulled up and presented a tiny white ball of fur of pure white with dark ruby red eyes. The others also turned to look at what Jon had produced.

"What have we here?" Theon snidely asked. "Looks like the runt of the litter," he leaned close to make his point across, "that ones' yours Snow."

 **Author's Note:** _Yes, the new chapter has come and gone; FINALLY. It was stressful to say the least trying to find and harness my inner child to tell this portion from Bran's point of view. Beyond that things happened, and life went on which does not excuse or explain why this took long to produce. For that I apologize deeply. Next chapter will be the start of time skipping. Not so much of laziness in wanting to be done with a long story as this (deep sigh), but more so in trying to advance the overall story's relevance in relation to the major characters_ _I believe_ _are important. At some point because this is A/U I will have to make a choice as to where certain characters or events will deviate earlier than originally intended; however, to keep the story somewhat canon focused (for canon enthusiasts out there) characters will only deviate if the interaction they have, or the impact my OC's have influences them enough to alter their nature or choices. May include some in next chapter; we'll see._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	5. Chapter 4: Arrival

**Disclaimer** **:** _Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin_ _._

 **The North**

 **-Game of Thrones IV—**

The sky was clear for a northern summer. The day crisp and peaceful, save for those who now gathered in the main courtyard. Dark wings bring dark words. An old warning about the black messenger ravens. Carnivorous birds that often-brought ill tidings to those who received them. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King, had passed. With this the king now rode north to Winterfell which placed Lord Stark within a complicated situation. When they saw each other last after the Rebellion heated words were exchanged and even years after leading to the Greyjoy uprising there were very few words exchanged. Regardless of what reason the king had he been now on the march. Lord Stark made the decision to welcome the king and his royal entourage a northern welcome. The word was spread summoning noble representatives of the major houses. Russ personally wrote the message that would be sent to his parents. In it he only wrote what needed to be written.

"Iron within, iron without." Russ said simply as he stared apprehensively towards the main gate of Winterfell. His only worry was if both or either of his parents would ever leave their mountain home, much less arrive for that matter. Glancing around the courtyard he saw the respective banners of those who were able to answer their lord's call. Standing off to his left Smalljon Umber; a tall and imposing figure of northern girth and muscle with wild fire brown hair and beard to match, followed by Daryn Hornwood whose stature and size while smaller than Small Jon bears his strength in the hard and sharp features of his face. To his right stood Dacey Mormont; tall strong and elegant with her raven hair semi-braided down her back, she was followed by Domeric Bolton; the male counterpart to Dacey in features with an expressionless face save the eyes. The other families of the north that received summons were either unable to attend or otherwise engaged with tasks deemed of importance to the North as a whole.

These four were always inseparable whenever he was around. He still recalled the time when they all swore bonds of fellowship before the mother heart tree deep in the Wolfswood as children. Since that time, they continue to be stronger than apart. Even today there are those that would think that because of differing personalities and mannerisms such bonds would not last, and yet they remain close. Russ however let his eyes linger on Dacey for a moment or two longer. She was never considered beautiful like the maidens of the south, but she possessed a beauty all her own. Everything about her seemed to clash; both an elegant lady of grace and a fierce warrior of Bear Island.

His musings now passed he once more glanced about the yard. Himself, Dacey, Domeric, Smalljon and Daryn; along with their respective guards and banners, were arrayed to the right side of the Stark family and household servants. Lord Stark himself stood tall in the center with Lady Stark and, their youngest, Rickon next to her. To the Lord's right was Robb, who was freshly trimmed and shaven, with Sansa and Bran following suit. Theon, Jon and Ghost, as ward, bastard and runt respectively, were slightly behind the Starks in attendance. Russ noticed with amusement the discomfort that Jon felt at having been given, against his will, a shave and haircut. Matter of fact Robb, Jon, Theon; even Russ, were ordered by the Lady Stark to be cleaned up before the royals arrived. Unlike the others Russ was shaved clean of all facial hair and his long hair was cut only a little at his insistence, deciding to braid it down his back in a single ponytail secured by small iron bands engraved with runic script. All those gathered in the courtyard were cleaned, to one degree or another, and dressed accordingly for the arrival. Not a word was spoken as everyone stood silently waiting. And yet something was amiss. Lady Stark looked about with trepidation.

"Where is Arya?!" She asked herself more than anyone there. She turned to her eldest daughter expecting an answer now. "Sansa, where is your sister?" Sansa merely looked towards her mother, almost indifferent about it. Her expression changed to that of playful annoyance and cast her gaze to the direwolf sitting at her side trying to look regal, even in waiting.

"Lady," the wolf with auburn colored fur and emerald shade eyes looked up toward Sansa's voice. "Seek." At the command the female wolf gave what sounded like a huff of disappointment before running off in search of the young ones in question. Trivial things like this always seemed to put a smile on his face at the different antics caused by the young Stark children. After a minute or two Lady returned dragging along a slightly smaller wolf with chestnut brown coat of fur and light amber shaded eyes between her teeth at the nape. Behind them huffing, puffing and muttering to herself was a little bundle of wolf robes; wearing what looked like a soldier's helmet.

"Hey, hey, hey, wait a second," while Lady plopped unceremoniously Arya's wolf to the ground Lord Stark reached out for the wild she-wolf that was his youngest daughter, "and where do you think you're going with that on?" He plucked the helm from her head and gave it to Ser Rodrik behind him.

"Go on Arya, they will be here soon." Her mother urged her over to where Sansa and Bran stood. Sighing in defeat she and her wolf made their way over between her siblings. Thus, the family was now complete with the children each with a wolf; each roughly the size of full grown hunting dogs, of their very own. Robb's chosen wolf was the biggest of the litter, possessing a full grey shade of fur, with bottomless black eyes answering to the name Grey Wind. Lady of course being the surrogate mother wolf to her littermates. Arya chose the name Nymeria to both honor and represent the wild fearless nature of her direwolf. Bran's wolf, who currently remains nameless, is mostly golden colored save for a single large stripe that runs from the neck down the back; the eyes a white shade of gold. And lastly Rickon's Shaggydog, a wolf of midnight colored black with deep piercing sapphire eyes. The wolves like their human counterparts all remained sitting on their hind legs.

Some time had passed since that day in the Wolf's Wood, when the pups were found. Each of the Stark Heirs took to their charges differently. The first and perhaps only rule they were told, or soon came to understand, was that wherever the children went regardless of what they were doing the pups would go too; learning similar actions. The kennels master was approached numerous times by one, some, or all the Stark siblings for advice. They were told repeatedly the same thing; a direwolf is never to be considered a house pet. The pups though small enough to fit in a young giant's palm at the time they were found would one day grow big and strong enough to ride upon into battle or protect them from other dangers.

Soon enough the moment came and everything else seemed to be forgotten. Sounds of horse hooves, wagon wheels, fluttering banners and streamers along with armor clinking or jostling from horseback. The first horses through the gate were ridden by a knight in gold with a white cloak with flowing gold hair to match, a young boy of matching hair clothed in red gold and black; the crown prince no doubt, and beside the boy an armored rider whose helm bore the shape of a ferocious feral dog. Other soldiers, both on horse and on foot, clad in mail garbs of red and gold or black and gold escorted a wheelhouse of a red fanciful design. These were soon followed by more knights clad in gold armor and helms with white cloaks. Amongst them was a great figured man of stature and physique, his hair and beard ebony black with gray streaks in some places. He rode forward with determined purpose, like almost nothing could stop him. This was no doubt him, the great Robert Baratheon; King of Westeros, hero of the Rebellion.

When he entered the yard Lord Stark did what was expected, he bent the knee and all present followed his example. From the small folk, servants and soldiers to the high-born individuals gathered; even the direwolves lowered themselves to the ground. All present in the courtyard paid respect to the king regardless of personal belief; all save one. Russ was aware of at least one truth, in his mind this was most certainly not his king. Remembering the house words, he stood tall and stayed his ground no matter what may come. The king however seemed focused on only person. His eyes stayed true to the man whom he deemed worthy of such attention. Whatever Russ was expecting from King Robert Baratheon, he was sorely disappointed.

Watching him dismount, if one could call it that, and stride from his horse Russ saw a protruding belly beneath the king's fur robes. The straps of his leathers seemed strained and tight to his skin, too much red began to color his cheeks, small huffs of breath were heard as if he sprinted a great distance. And even as far from him as Russ was he could smell the sweet taste of wine permeate from the man. Without a doubt whatever stories Russ had been told or heard from others was not about the same individual before him. Perhaps as if the king sensed Russ's disdain he turned his head briefly towards the source and shared an equal if not a greater look of loathing before resuming his march to Lord Stark.

He finally stood before Lord Stark, his eyes roaming over him as if sizing him up for some unknown test. The silence seemed deafening as everyone did nothing for fear of the king's wrath fall on them for the littlest of thing. But a slight gesture from the king caused Lord Stark to rise with the others once again following the lord's example. When he stood they were practically eye to eye; neither it seemed willing to give an inch despite customs dictating otherwise.

"Your Grace." Lord Stark bowed his head slightly in respect to the Baratheon king. In return he was shrewdly stared at with a look of scrutiny. His eyes still bored into him as if still trying to measure him. If it were anyone else, the pressure would feel like the world itself sat on their shoulders; yet with Eddard Stark it would no doubt feel like a calm winters breeze. If you stared at him, he would stare right back. The Quiet Wolf earned his nickname mayhap in jest, but it is now a name that most describes the good and bad of the ruling lord of Winterfell.

"You've got **fat**." The words put all who heard it in various states of shock or disbelief. The looks on the Stark children were the most comical to Russ. So much so that he could not contain himself any longer. The laugh was long, boisterous and apparently echoed in the all too silent courtyard. All eyes were now upon Russ, who did not have a care as to why the attention fell on him as he continued to laugh. The King was not amused.

"And what in the seven hells do you find amusing?!" The King never moved his body but turned his head to glare at Russ with a similar measured look. Dacey and Smalljon tried unsuccessfully to get him to cease. Though finally, with some effort, he managed to respond clear enough.

"Apologies," he gasped a little for breath, "but apparently you've not seen yourself in a mirror, else you would not be so quick to make opinions of others." The chuckling resumed though unbeknownst to Russ both Dacey and Smalljon shared a look, before both grabbed an arm then simultaneously punching Russ square in the gut. The Stark children all flinched at once knowing that two very strong individuals just made someone they care about reintroduce his breakfast with the world. Robb, Jon and Theon especially as they have been on the receiving end on more than one occasion. The King turned back once more to Lord Stark his mood perhaps now darkened by the apparent slight.

"Is this the type of courtesy I am to expect from those of your house now?!" While the King was ranting Lady Stark, who arranged everything, stared daggers into Russ' soul wishing his demise if this didn't fare well. "Well, Ned Stark, what say you?!"

The tension was there, so heavy and thick. Lord Stark looked at nothing and no one else save King Robert. Time dragged on at the slowest of snail paces. Sensing a moment of opportunity, he took two steps toward his King, the sound of leathered hands squeezing pommel grips was heard. He emotionlessly returned the King's expression; then sharply and at once indicated the man's rotund belly yearning for open air. A second later the King roared a laugh that could possibly put a giant to shame, if ever they laughed at all. Grins full of humor love and friendship from long ago now adorned their faces as the King pulled his old friend in a monstrous bear hug. Upon seeing this a deep state of relief passed through everyone and Lady Stark released a breath she probably was unaware she held.

During this brief exchange two things had happened. The first being that Russ finally managed to get both his breath and bearings, Dacey sharing a silent assorted look of relief; concern, anger, and annoyance all at once. It was a look shared with him many times when Russ did things his own way; and while he never apologized, as it was a sign of weakness to him, he would own up to whatever consequences came his way. The second, and perhaps most noticeable, thing to happen was the famed beauty that was the Queen to emerge from the wheelhouse, her two remaining children following close behind. Despite the trials and tribulations of being a young mother and Queen of the realm of Westeros she apparently lost neither the youthful visage of a morning sun and the body of a Lyseni goddess brought to form.

As the king pulled away from his friend Lord Stark still chuckling he turned upon another of his old acquaintances. "Cat." He said with arms outstretched, a warm heartful smile gracing his features. His eyes almost lighting up with a bright shine.

"Your Grace." The words were barely out of her mouth as she not only tried to curtsey when she was slightly assaulted by a smaller versioned hug that had come upon her husband. Russ would have taken delight in seeing the flummoxed Lady Stark at her most awkward, but Russ' eyes were solely fixed on the Queen. For as even as her face was of showing no expression her eyes revealed her true intent. And what he saw was most disconcerting to say the least.

Her eyes were filled with disgust for her surroundings, contempt for the many people she believed beneath her, bitterness for something far close to her. If any descriptions could come to his mind it would be that she was everything Dacey was not; thank the gods. Dacey noticed how he had ignored her silent rant to see the person of his interest. She subtlety leaned to Domeric who, much like every other man gathered there, watched the Queen with star struck eyes that saw love made flesh. Whatever she whispered in his ear changed the expression in his eyes from appreciative and warm to a calculated cold stare of suspicion; he continuously shifted his gaze tween the Stark's and the Lannister's. As ladylike as Dacey is she was very protective of the North and its people. To see such disregard, no matter how subtle, warranted in equal measure a response.

"Oi, Russ," Smalljon whispered as low as he could; he too noticed what Russ and Dacey were interested in. "If the rumors be true, do you think she fucks all wild and fierce in bed; like a mother lion in heat?" Small Jon was as crass in his humor as all Umber's were prone to do in the presence of family and close friends, but beneath the humor the real question was left unspoken. How will the Stark direwolves deal with lions in their den? Whilst Smalljon may have found it humorous regardless Russ meanwhile was still coughing up dry air in place of anymore laughter. His eyes then shifted to the one Stark he knew seemed to have an opinion about everything.

 **Arya**

Arya was awash with mixed feelings and thoughts. When Bran saw the column coming up the road to Winterfell she became more and more excited to see all that was new to her. She disguised herself, perfectly in her opinion, and snuck out to the edge of Winter Town to catch an early glimpse. The town itself could no longer be called a town, at least in scale, ever since the Great Expansion by the Stark Kings of winter's past. The town was populated indeed Arya thought to herself as she wiggled and snuck through limbs to reach a distinct vantage point. Sneaking by her side, Nymeria was ever vigilant for a place that her bond mate could achieve success. She didn't get a chance to see the King and his entourage however, because Lady had appeared next to her and Nymeria with what might be a look of exasperation. As silly as it sounds Arya was going to argue with the direwolf, and yet Lady would not hear of it and proceeded to drag; or carry, Nymeria away. This in turn prompted Arya to follow if only to grumble her displeasure of how Lady was _so_ much like her sister.

Her displeasure became more incensed when her father not only scolded her, at least in her point of view, but also managed to take the helmet she merely borrowed from the armory. But in short there she was standing in line with her family, watching the pageant spectacle of the royal arrival. Standing on ceremony is not something any northerner does, even less so a girl like Arya. Still, when her lord father bent the knee upon the King's appearance; like it or not, Arya performed her duty. As much as she desired to look up and catch a glance of the King it might bring dishonor and punishment, not upon Arya but more so on her family home and her people. She did see however Russ standing tall whilst all bent knee and smirked at that.

Growing up Russ and Jon were the only ones at first to understand Arya's taste for wild adventure. Least that is till one misadventure, of sorts, brought Russ' wrath down on her. Before the incident Russ always went out of his way help her with any combat lessons that almost none wished to teach her. Words were spoken in haste and within the moment. Jon did what he could then but knew neither would back down. What she would later regret was trying to apologize.

 _Never offer apologies to anyone,_ he told her. _One day you will become a she-wolf of the North and all that entails, much like Sansa but much wilder. On that day you will no doubt lead a pack of your own. As alpha it will fall to you to make decisions for what is best for the pack; and as leader if you_ _ **ever**_ _, apologize it will_ _ **always**_ _be weakness._ She cried as he told her these words. Her father was furious with Russ for treating her harshly, but Russ remained firm. _This is the North Lord Stark. Regardless of age or sex she needs to learn that if someone fucks up then they must own up to it, not cower behind words of excuse._ His own words resulted in beatings of his own, but not once did he apologize. And for this she respected his views, even if they might be too cruel for her.

And to stand before the King without due respect took balls that, even though she was a girl, Arya did not possess. Those musings ended when her father rose and greeted his old friend the King. Seeing him up close was disappointing. Granted that all adult men of great stature or size were taller than her, but the Baratheon King did not live up to her imagination of stories told about her father's friend. He also had nerve to insult her father in being fat; **fat**. It wasn't so much shock that claimed Arya's features but furious disbelief that a **fat** king could call **her** father, of all people, **fat**.

The King in her mind got what he deserved when Russ not only laughed but insulted him right back. If he didn't then as the old gods as her witness she would have done so. She and her sister winced at Russ' pain when his friends Dacey and Smalljon punched his gut for speaking his thoughts. So focused was she on Russ' discomfort she missed the supposed confrontation of sorts between her father and the King. What she did catch; or hear of more like, was the King and her father sharing a laugh and her mother welcoming him. As the King was introduced to her siblings Robb and Rickon Arya was searching for someone.

"Where's the Imp?" she asked looking at Sansa because she was taller than her; and therefore, could probably see more. Her sister was distracted though. She was staring at a young man with golden-sun colored hair as if enthralled by looks. He glanced her way and smiled. To Arya it seemed more akin to a predatory smirk than an actual smile. "Sansa," she tried again, "where's the Imp?!"

"Not now." Was Sansa's reply. Not once did her eyes stray from the prince's. She returned the smile and adjusted herself a little as if shy. As sickened as Arya was by romantic nonsense such as this she knew what a genuine smile from Sansa looked like. This cold icy mask she wore on her face was not it and Arya wished with every fiber of her being that the prince would step out of line so that she could treat him the _**northern**_ way; and all that goes with it. The King stole Sansa's attention though when he walked to her next in line complementing on how pretty she appeared. In turn Sansa truly shied away a light blush from the comment. Arya simply rolled her eyes having seen and heard it all before when it comes to her eldest sister. The King noticed this and might have been a bit curious.

"And who might you be little she-wolf?" he asked in a loud playful tone, leaning down and close to see and hear.

"Arya." She answered him straight and true. Her back became a little bit stiffened, her shoulders squared, and head raised with pride. Someone however disapproved of that. A slight kick to her right foot brought attention that she had to; for her family, remember her graces'. "Your grace." Performing an awkward curtsey-bow to the King with a huff. A guffaw of laughter escaped him. It was short but boisterous to warrant notice.

"No, none of that now." Smirking as he was, "If it's one thing I love and hate about you northerners, it's your undying ability to tell things straight without niceties." Arya felt very appreciative of this sentiment even though her expression did not match. For a moment she thought the King stared at her with a far-off dream look in his eyes. Just as it was there so too did it vanish. And the King moved on to her final sibling, Bran. He nodded towards her brother in greeting then proceeded to give him an encouraging look as if expecting something.

"Come on then," he further emphasized with a wave of his hand. "Show us your muscles." A confused and somewhat apprehensive feature was on Bran's face. His dreams were to one day become a great knight just like Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Duncan the Tall, or even the Sword of the Morning himself; Ser Arthur Dayne. Dacey got to meet Ser Arthur once and told Arya and Bran what he told her. _Dreams are all well and good_ , he said, _but it takes a strong will to endure long harsh and dedicated training to achieve_. Bran at this moment no doubt felt pressured, but probably wanted to impress by playing along and flexing his arm. Now it was Arya who returned the kick to the foot. Bran winced for a second, glaring at his sister for distracting him. Arya shook her head, winked, then nodded to Bran with encouragement.

Bran now seemed unsure; looking about at certain faces for support. Finally reaching a decision he proceeded to remove his cloak tunic and shirt to show the King exactly what he asked to see. Despite Bran still being a boy of ten name days, the semi-rigorous martial training including the constant climbing about the castle toned out his figure. Standing there for all to witness he began to flex his arms back and stomach this way and that in various poses. Cheers and whistles came from Russ and his group with loving support for _the_ _little heartbreaker_ as Dacey would call him sometimes. Now the King could barely contain himself at the display put on. His gloved meaty hand affectionately patting her brother's shoulder before turning to Arya's parents. They both had just finished greeting and welcoming the Queen when the King spoke.

"Take me to your crypts. I wish to pay my respects." There was disbelief painting Arya's face. Her father and Maester Luwin both expressed just how important certain aspects of the Stark family were. The idea that while a friend; and a distant one at that, of her father and of the family he is still a foreigner. A southerner as well.

"We have been riding for a month my love." Coldly stated the Queen. "Surely the dead can wait?" Arya knew that if Theon could he would state that _what is dead may never die_. But the north has a different view of death, for her part death is not the end but the beginning. A few moments of tense silenced passed. None wished to put themselves between what apparently was a marriage dispute. And not the first it seemed. The King was in no mood for any such argument.

"Ned." He commanded quickly and suddenly then proceeded to turn in the direction of the underground stairs that led to the family tombs. Whatever possessed Arya to do this she never knew but did it she did and ran in front of the King with both arms outstretched and a fierce defiance in her eyes. Nymeria, ever present by her side, drew herself up growling deep but not baring fangs; yet.

"You're not allowed down there." Sternly she declared.

"Arya." Her mother called out to her a panicked tone within her voice. She wrung her hands together uncertain the repercussions of a transgression such as this.

"Do not worry girl," the King stated calmly with no little to no concern to Arya's claims. "I am a friend of the family after all." With that he made to move around her, but she jumped in front of him again; barring him from his destination once again.

"I am not **just** a girl," she pronounced to him. "I am **Arya** , of the House Stark of Winterfell. None but a Stark may enter the family crypts." A cold look adorned her face now. "Foreigners are not welcome in sacred tombs such as ours."

"Arya that is enough!" Her father now lost his patience this outburst of disobedience. She would no doubt be disciplined but just like Russ she would refuse to apologize. The towering presence of the great stag King leaned ever slightly over her. Not a shred of emotion adorning his features. Only the eyes gave him away and House Baratheon is known for fury in all it's forms. But despite a chill running up and down her spine she would not yield nor, would she run. Bran, who managed to get his cloak around his shoulders at least, stared at the audacity of his sibling shaking his head rapidly; a look of worry upon his youthful face.

"Careful girl." The King growled deeply. "Tis your king you be speaking to." A hand all the while rested yet gripped tightly the pommel of the sword strapped to his waist belt. At this bit of movement Nymeria was now deadly poised to spring growling more deeply and loudly almost baring her teeth to full display. Her pack siblings were no longer resting on their hind quarters by this point, sensing far more the possibility of the threat posed to their chosen.

Robb, Grey Wind, Jon and Ghost saw perhaps the greatest danger from two individuals. Jaime Lannister; the Kingslayer, is said to be the best swordsman in Westeros. His moniker and skill both earned whilst Kingsguard for the Mad King Aerys Targaryen. The other danger was the black armored rider that stood beside the prince. He never removed his helm but opened the dog helmet's face guard to reveal his grizzled bearded features with half of his face scarred. The colors he bore on his chest were three black hounds on a field of yellow; colors of House Clegane, loyal banner to the Lannister house. Unbeknownst to Arya and everyone else Robb and Jon shared a silent exchange and began to slowly move themselves accordingly should things turn disastrous, their direwolves moving in similar fashion.

Sansa and Lady tried to remain indomitable and stoic throughout the exchange. It did not however prevent them from moving near Bran and his wolf in a form of protectiveness. Rickon who was the youngest fearfully clung to his mother's skirts not fully understanding what or why this was happening. Shaggydog meanwhile sensed exactly what would happen and now stood protectively beside mother and child. Lady Stark wouldn't admit it, but she was relieved and shocked at the way the wolves responded. The patience of the King, if ever there was any, was reaching its conclusion. His jaw champed down tight together, his hands absentmindedly clenching and unclenching his sword, his breathing rapidly increasing and his face flushing red more and more.

"Just because you were king before I was born does not mean you are **my** king." The words escaped her before Arya realized she even spoke.

"Defiant and rebellious," the Queen observed, her green eyes calculating the situation and turned to Arya's parents. "Is this how you raise your children Stark, wild and free with no thought towards discipline or consequence?" The look of condemnation and superiority easily coming to her as if breathing. Her father was focused solely on herself and his old friend. His face revealed no expression or hint of emotion. It was as if he was winter personified. The Queen turned back once more seemingly not finished in the least. "Perhaps an example is needed my dear husband, lest others see fit to further acts of rebellion." Every word felt like it dripped with honeyed venom; sweet yet deadly.

"That is enough!" A rough shout roared through the courtyard, Arya felt a gruff but gentle push to move her and a tall dark shadowed figure stand between her and the King; who raised himself up to measure his challenger. She blinked away the confusion believing that Russ would throw himself in harm's way as such. Russ was perhaps the epitome of calm or was too stupid to know better, but nonetheless squared before the King. His mismatched colored eyes gazing deep into the storm colored orbs the Baratheon King possessed.

"Let it go for now Arya. A true warrior and wolf knows when to fight and when to survive." Russ never looked in her direction when he spoke to her. She lowered her arms slowly glancing every so often between the two figures before her. She laid a soft touch to Nymeria's neck and almost at once began to relax. The King would not be denied in what he wished to achieve. Arya assumed he was taking his wife's suggestion and making an example out of Russ instead of her. All at once the Baratheon began to unleash his fury.

"So then, you are the one who encourages this lot huh?" Russ gave neither answered word nor inch of ground. The King continued regardless. "First you seek to insult me by not showing proper respect as I am due, next you further insult with my own words." The occasional spittle flew from his mouth almost on every other word; such was his vehemence towards Russ. Russ remained steadfast in the face of such wrath. "For that I was willing to overlook as foolishness of youth, but what I take greater offence of the most," he stepped in and leaned face to face with the young mountain lord, " _ **that gods forsaken eye!**_ " None save those who truly knew Russ would know that a very slight twitch appeared across his features afore it disappeared. The King lowered his voice and his tone to a whisper only meant for Russ. Arya was still near enough to hear however and grew angrier with each word the fat King spoke.

" **When the war was nearing it's end I advocated the death of those who bore relation and loyalty to that mad murderous raping family. Save for those I was forced to pardon or send to the wall I made good on my word. Your mother, oh yes, I know her, she traveled to what she believed was safety. Who do you think it was that forced Ned Stark to bring your parents to heel by sending you and yours scattering to the winds**." A pause to further study for any opportune weakness. " **Had I known then what you looked like I would've caved your skull in with my bare hands. I will not suffer any reminder of** _that_ _man_ **and his wretched kin whilst I draw breath**."

He stepped back but still within arms reach of Russ. Speaking loud clear and with authority he pronounced before all.

"I am willing to overlook and forget these slights against the crown if you bend the knee and swear before me, your _King_ , oaths of fealty." Arya knew what Russ's answer would be.

" **Go fuck yourself**." He gave his choice clear and calm. The last word barely left his mouth when he was struck by the King's leathered fist. Smalljon Umber and Dacey both had looks of wanting to help Russ, but both were stopped in mid step by Daryn and Domeric. In Smalljon's case his house guardsmen had to help hold him back. The King at first bore a smirk that very quickly changed to a grimace. Unknown to everyone else, save Arya and Russ, the King was clenching and unclenching his right hand that hit Russ' jaw squarely. For Russ it practically seemed not to bother him. His feet never moved or shifted from place and his head slowly turned back to face the King. His left cheek began turning red from the impact of the blow while Russ spat some blood before the King's feet. Silence followed before Russ spoke again.

"Perhaps I misspoke." Arya reached forward and clung to him looking up and silently pleading not to continue. Russ, like an unyielding mountain, would not be persuaded. " **I said go fuck yourself southron whore!** " The words and actions were shocking enough but suddenly fore anyone could realize what was taking place the King reached and drew his sword from his scabbard. A shriek of terror was sounded, the rustle of bodies being moved, and as Arya shut her eyes tightly she heard the unmistakable song of a blade whistling through the air.

 _ **TCHINK!**_

Arya slowly opened her eyes and beheld a sight she never thought capable. Her father stood in front and to the side of her and Russ; the ancestral blade Ice stopping the King's downward strike with an overhead horizontal parry. As everyone else who mattered gasped sighed shouted or voiced an opinion of the situation Arya became solely focused on the stare down tween her father and the King. She looked up towards Russ to see if he was alright. Instead she saw only a look of sad disappointment on his face as he looked down to her. She was unable to give voice to her confusion when a roar of protest came through the gate catching all unaware.

" **What in the hells is the meaning of all this?!** " Two riders came through the gated opening. The first a tall long black haired bearded man with grizzled features and gray streaks on the sides of his head riding upon a stallion warhorse of good considerable size. His clothes were of the style worn in Braavos much like two more riders dressed in similar fashion, but his voice and demeaner when he shouted his question were of the North. His traveling companion was the last to arrive. To say he was short in stature would not have gone amiss. Indeed, it would most likely have described him well were it not for a surprising and dramatic entrance. This was a dwarf, no question; but with golden hair mismatched green eyes and wearing the red and gold of House Lannister. His chosen mount was neither horse or pony. Not even a jackass for those foolish enough to believe in the tales of the _Demon Monkey_. A lion is what he is, and a lion is what he rode. A fully grown adult lion by the look of it. Both riders gazed about assessing the situation looking at each other and shaking their heads almost simultaneously.

"Perhaps you may have been right my friend." The lion rider commented. "Perhaps I should not have insisted on that last round of northern ale."

 **Author's** __ **Note:** _I might have said it before but damn is this hard. As always support and patience is appreciated with constructive comments/criticisms welcome. Though I will say that if waiting for the next chapter on a scheduled basis is what you demand/expect than perhaps this story is not for you. I write when I can and have no set method for story outline. Although I hope to finish part one before the year is over. Life happens what can I say._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	6. Chapter 5: Winter's Lion

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R.R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-Game of Thrones V-**

 _The tavern house air smelled of spiced cinnamon, ale, sweat and other exotic aromas. The sounds within varied in both pitch and tone ranging anywhere from shouts moans groans or outcries of emotion. The larger than average room was spacious enough for the several dozen occupants who either kept to themselves or stayed in somewhat predesignated areas for their respective groups. This was not your typical run of the mill whorehouse tavern, nor was it an expensively refined pleasure mansion with wine women of beauty and song. This specific tavern possessed a reputation where no matter who you are or what your troubles are all were served equally and fair._

 _Even in Braavos, where freedom and equality were more than simple words, it spoke well indeed. It did not hurt either that fully half of its frequent patrons as well as the owner being current and former members of the famous (or infamous) Legion of Braavos. Others prefer the moniker of being called the Legion of Wolves in honor of the original founders. Truly, this is a soldier's secondary home away from the battlefields and their place of origins._

 _On this night, though much like any other, a stranger walked through the door of the establishment. Even though hooded and cloaked any who bothered a look could easily tell that this person did not belong; nor was he local or otherwise. The skill that went into the materials of his fine traveling clothes spoke either nobility or merchant trader. He glanced about the accessible area searching for something or someone recognizable. Everyone else present paid the stranger no mind whatsoever or gave an appraised glance before going back to their own affairs. Following directly close behind were four more hooded figures whose clothing and armor denoted either soldiers or mercenary bodyguards._

 _At the appearance of the others there were those who now took notice of armed individuals they neither knew nor trusted. The feeling these hooded travelers gave off was one of intrigue and suspicion. The fact they did not belong or moved in any familiar movements or patterns meant hired swords who knew just enough to be dangerous but not enough to intimidate hardened fighters such those gathered. One of the hooded swords was not appreciative of this and went to make a step when the fine clothed traveler reached out to prevent intent. Almost travelling as one they made their way over to the barkeep who was speaking with a man and woman in sleeveless leathered armor, both of taller than average stature and carrying varied styled weapons. The keeper noticed the group heading his way and gestured politely to the two people he spoke with to please wait or thereabouts._

 _"Greetings travelers," his accent thick and deep as he spoke, "what is it you might require?" He switched his gaze between them expectantly waiting for a reply. The fine clothed one leaned a little closer, all the while pulling a coin or two from a pouch. Placing the coin down on the bar counter the stranger spoke._

 _"I seek information." The barkeep said nothing looking instead at the solitary coin with one eyebrow raised either in disappointment or confused interest. "I was informed that a man of golden hair and green eyes, answering to the name of Tyrion, resided in these parts." As the stranger was speaking the barkeep made his choice in reaching for the coin till the name was mentioned. He stopped his hand just shy of the object staring squarely at the group in front of him now. Suspicion and worry crossing the features of his brow tapping his fingers to a tune only he knew in his head on the counter absentmindedly._

 _"You are a stranger to us," the keeper said calmly now, "and this is no doubt your first time in our fair city." He shifted his posture righting himself confidently but still warily hunched as if waiting for the hammer to strike. "The only thing I can tell you is that the confidence of the establishment's patrons is such because every scar face here, including the two individuals standing here next to you," he indicated said persons that he spoke to prior to this, "has fought and shed blood together in many fights and battles. Myself it almost seems long ago but I too earned my equaled share of hardships." The pitch and tone of the keeper's voice was resolute and emotional yet belied an ultimate sense of professional loyalty. The merchant leader nodded his hood covered head a little recognizing, in respect, that which the barkeep was driving at._

 _"So, am I to interpret that as a no then?" The leader leaning on the counter with a hand drifting towards the coin and adding three more. The information apparently seeming to be of importance. True to his word the keeper replied._

 _"It is unfortunate," a small sigh between thoughts, "but the answer is no." One of the hooded soldiers leaned in menacingly resting an arm on the counter growling his displeasure._

 _"You seem to mistake us for giving you a choice, Braavosi." The last word was drawled in a sneering manner. Even as he spoke his other fellows not so subtle like shifted their concealed weapons into positions of readiness. The leader's body language showed he was displeased but for different reasons. What he had noticed that his companions did not was that there was a lack of sound throughout the room. Every eye was now focused intently upon the five hooded individuals with notions of hostility. Leathered hands fists and gauntlets, all of which have no doubt seen extensive use, gripped more carefully hidden blades and other more useful tools of their trade for this situation._

 _The more agile or smaller statured persons easily and masterfully managed to get within arms reach undetected. The biggest amongst them chose instead to go weaponless as they no doubt felt their skin and fists were impenetrable. The man and woman fighters at the bar, the same ones the keeper spoke to earlier, chose to wisely make for the door; quiet as possible. They were intending of cutting off escape or chance of being interrupted by others like these poor excuse for soldiers. Despite the lack of subtlety in the situation the hooded soldiers remained practically unaware of what was to befall them._

 _"We were told that a dwarf matching that description was last seen in these parts." The hooded soldier continued. "You are going to tell us what we want to know lest you find yourself like those cock less slaves." His other arm drifted within his cloak, most likely readying a weapon of some type. The barkeep silently stared neutral like into the silhouette of the fool addressing him so. Slowly and methodically like a hunter stalking his quarry a predatory smirk emerged on his features, the eyes once started out jovial with a possible twinkle to them now possessed no trace of emotion or amusing joy in them bottomless orbs that were made darker by the somewhat dim lighting of the tavern hall._

 _"Then allow me to put it in words you fuckers can understand." Gone was the thick styled braavosi accent he used. Instead the timbre and tone of his voice matched that of the strangers; however, the accent now sounded old and cold like something from harsh lands long forgotten. The surprise was evident by the shifting postures on the hooded group and quicker than any reacted the barman slammed a long piercing dagger into the hand resting on the counter in front of him. Less than a second after that before realizing what just happened to their companion the barkeep reached out to the semi-screaming man and smashed his head hard to the counter pinning it there in place with his arm. This not only silenced him but also stunned his hooded comrades._

 _Roughly about the same time this came about weapons from the patrons flashed simultaneously from their hidden places showing either deadly intent of usage or killing and maiming their chosen enemy's limb of choice. Caught unawares and choosing to prolong their own skins the hooded soldiers simply stood still, their hands slowly raised to show submission. And yet the only calm individual amongst it all was the merchant leader who showed no physical signs of stress or worry despite the tense situation._

 _"Calmly please," the leader spoke slightly disappointed at how things were turning, "this is not what I intended."_

 _"And yet what you intended, matters for shit with the company you keep." The voice was piercingly new, sophisticated and possessing an admonishing tone. A few pairs of eyes turned in the direction of the new voice. The bearer slowly with each step descending one of the staircases from the top floor whistling a sad slow and somber tune that associated those of a certain standing. He at last revealed himself on the secondary balcony overlooking the main floor where all the commotion was centered._

 _"And now the rains weep o'er his halls, with no one there to hear." He finished at last the tune he started. A dwarf in stature with sandy golden hair and green mismatched eyes to convey a sad and thoughtful look forever imprinted on his features. Silence continued once more save an odd groan from the bar. The dwarf gazed deeply at the merchant before coming at last to a decision._

 _"Thank you, Sergeant," indicating the barkeeper, "that will be all." He nodded once before disappearing back up the staircase to wherever room he currently resided in. The others all took a relaxing yet cautious stance with the hooded soldiers while the sergeant removed unceremoniously his knife from its fleshy sheath. The man then fell groaning lazily to the floor blood draining steadily from his wound as his comrades stared at his predicament but made no move to treat him. A couple of maids felt some pity for him as they huffed out a sigh tending to his wound and the mess he left._

 _"Just yourself then." The bar sergeant stated indicating the stairs with his head and cleaning his blade with a washing cloth. "He doesn't prefer to be kept waiting."_

 _At this, and not wanting to be told twice with further consequences, the merchant proceeded to make his way towards his intended destination. Every person he passed eyed him with suspicion respect or outright hatred for reasons he could guess but would not speak of openly. No doubts that tales and rumors were spun far and wide of the exploits and circumstances that were perpetrated. Most were more than likely justified to some degree. The thought of some however sent chills down the merchant's spine, almost as if he had borne witness to said acts. In no time he stood at last outside the room of his intended. He debated with himself on whether knocking would be necessary at this point. The door opened, and doubts were dispelled as the choice was no longer up to him._

 _"Well," Tyrion voiced as he stood to the side holding the door open for his guest, "won't you come in? I imagine you have travelled far to seek an individual such as myself." On the surface the words were spoken cordially with calm and sincerity. Yet deep beneath it lied an angry indifference as if interrupting something of importance._

 _"Many thanks my lord." Came the automatic response to such an invitation of entrance. Tyrion however appeared incensed at this._

 _"Don't call me that." His gaze followed the tall hooded figure as he walked around the room glancing this way and that at the air of intelligence the room portrayed describing the owner's preference. "I ceased to be a lord of any kind when I left the land of my birth for a fresh start with the love of my life. But then you would know all about that would you not, Uncle Kevan."_

 _The merchant stopped his wandering within the center of the room. Slowly and methodically he turned from a nearby bookshelf and writing table. The heavy hooded cloak he wore was pulled back to reveal and older world worn face with almost sharp like features, green eyes and silvery blonde hair that thinned in certain areas yet not enough to be noteworthy or noticed. Lines had formed or gathered around his eye's brow and neckline, showing all who looked the mileage of hard worked years as opposed to the soft way of living that many 'nobles' had come to enjoy. He stood tall despite being long in the tooth and looked upon his nephew with a soft critical eye expecting certain responses to his being here of all places._

 _Tyrion for his part was indifferently dismissive of the whole affair. He instead slowly shut the door turned about and made way to a corner of the room that held various bottles pitchers and casks of ale and wine. He hesitated at first when he went to retrieve a bottled spirt of Arbor Gold and instead grabbed a somewhat small hand sized cask of Northern Sturm Brew. So aptly named that very few, if any can drink it without deathlike consequences._

 _"So then dear uncle," he spoke whilst pouring a couple of cups of brew, "how fares the homeland and family? Well I trust." He turned with one cup thrusted towards his father's brother, his gaze never faltering as he sipped upon his own cup's contents._

 _"All is well Tyrion. You needn't worry." With a small nod he accepted what was offered. He stared questioningly wondering what manner of drink lied within. He looked towards his shortened nephew with eyebrows raised, an unspoken question being implied. The reciprocated look was one of amusement at one sided knowledge. Kevan resolved then to test it with a gulp. The result of which left him practically gasping for air in coughing fits, incredulously glancing between his nephew and the now half empty cup._

 _"Whoever said I was worried?" Tyrion spoke in reply to his uncle's previous statement and raising his mostly fuller cup in salute to his uncle. He turned briefly away to sit upon a comfortable enough chair. Not large enough for others but just enough for himself. Making himself at ease in the seat he glanced towards his uncle gesturing that he proceeds cautiously with the drink._

 _"The Westerlands prospers," Kevan rasped somewhat managing to bring his fits under control with some effort. "Lannisport booms with trade and the family is in good health. Your absence is," he paused a little to gather more tactful words on the approaching subject, "shall we say that it has been a few years Tyrion and you are sorely missed." Tyrion's brow furrowed a bit but remained neutrally pleasant towards his uncle._

 _"Truly my dear uncle." He stated half-jokingly and half sarcasm. "I was not aware of such heartfelt sorrow my absent state had caused." He took a few more sips of his cup. Unlike his uncle Tyrion had some years and 'many' forgetful nights of practice to build up a level of tolerance; to some degree at least. Kevan adorned a look of some incredulousness at his nephews drinking ability. Not wanting to appear incapable he proffered his cup to his host for a refill, continuing in conversation._

 _"Tyrion," Keven grabbed hold of a nearby stool to rest and be equal to his nephew without offence, "how long must you forsake us for some imagined slight?" A grateful nod towards his nephew after he filled up his cup once more. "Family is everything. When allies and friends abandon us with enemies gathering to surround and destroy us all, family is all that remains." The emphasis to which he stressed his words subtly spoke to long years of being indoctrinated in firm believe of this creed. Whether acquired personally or having it forced upon only Kevan knew where his loyalties and beliefs lied. Tyrion belied a small look of amusement and simply raised his glass in mock salute to his uncles', no, his_ _ **father's**_ _wise words on family._

 _"Why indeed uncle." He sipped from his cup once more savoring the fiery liquid that smoothly burned down his throat. "Especially since it seems to fall to you to now bring me back into 'the lion's den'." His distasteful and calming mockery of the family home earning a slight twitch reaction from his uncle. Kevan sighed knowing this task would neither be simple or easy to any extreme but still resolved to see it done nonetheless._

 _"Tyrion…" Kevan had started as he lifted his cup for another sip but never got the chance as his nephew's demeanor had changed._

 _"Don't!" Tyrion spoke with sternness rising only a little to further his point. "I have had to put up with a great deal while that hole in 'the Rock' was called my home and with creatures that did not seem worthy of being called family. I stayed because I lacked incentive and opportunity to escape my confines and captives." He gathered himself before continuing, his eyes not once looking away from Kevan's. "When she came into my life on that fateful day I knew then what I had to do. Thanks in no small part to uncle Gerion's somewhat documented exploit's we escaped our pasts traveling through places unheard of and enduring hardships that most, if not all, would have abandoned to return to the safety of what is familiar."_

 _Kevan at that merely looked to the floor, swirling absentmindedly the liquid within his cup. For he knew all too well that Tyrion did not fully 'escape' his past as he claims; yet was wise enough to say nothing. Taking a long sip from his cup he remembered the wrathful orders and words spoken by his brother when his youngest son practically abandoned the family for some peasant girl of poor standing. In the end he did what he was told to do; for family._

 _"In the end;" Tyrion stopped his thoughts from being spoken, simply gesturing grandly to the somewhat modest room of the establishment emphasized his point enough, "well here we are." Tyrion's gaze dropped back to his cup and in one mighty gulp downed what remained before pouring himself another._

 _"I never took you for a bard or poet." Kevan stated looking to try and change the subject. "Even when you were younger. It always seemed as if your mind was more focused on becoming like your brother Jaime." Tyrion once again took a somewhat amused tone recalling the idle dreams of a faraway place that a small boy once knew._

 _"Close enough uncle. There was a time when I, like many other boys, dreamed of becoming great warrior knights. Rescuing beautiful damsels, delivering the king's justice upon bandit criminals and partaking in great tournaments to myself against others in glorious displays. Alas, such was not to be. Though I was able to expand my knowledge on subjects more suited for someone of my," he paused briefly to look upon himself, "stature." Though a smirk spread from his lips his eyes bore no sign of humor. "These days my dear uncle I prefer the title of hospitaler." Kevan took notice of the small sense of pride his nephew exhibited in that little proclamation. To be considered a soldier of faith required great devotion that Kevan admittingly didn't think Tyrion capable of. He quickly looked about the room for other signs that would clarify such a statement. Besides handmade pictures and crafts of various gods and deities as well as a vast assortment of books and chests, some of which were open displaying rolls of parchment armor weapons of differing make and bottles of wine possibly. Looking at his nephew Kevan had a mere hint that the dwarf, nay, the person sitting before him was not the bright-eyed wandering boy he remembered._

 _Looking closer his nephew bore calloused hands and a slight look in the eye that were almost telltale signs of not just any fighter who has killed, but someone who has seen a battle or two survived it and didn't escape without blood on their hands. Keven was equal parts proud and worried at what exactly the man who is his nephew was fully capable of. A sort of silence seemed to fill the room. Neither man willing to speak next, for it seemed that whatever they wished to say to the other would only serve to further separate them in estrangement. Kevan would not be deterred, and his nephew knew it all too well._

 _"Tyrion."_

 _"Uncle."_

 _The awkward silence carried on. Both men now focused upon their cups as if seeking words of wisdom from their liquid depths. Kevan finished his first and gestured politely for a refill. Tyrion once more obliged him thinking silently how much longer his uncle could last against the Sturm Brews' effects._

" _Your father…" Kevan started once again, looking upon his refilled cup and a somber look._

 _"Could jump off Casterly Rock and into the Sunset Sea for all it's worth." Tyrion interrupted again although his voice dripped with unconcealed venomous sarcasm. Whether finally losing control of his senses, his taste for alcohol, or reaching the end of patience with his nephew none save the two of them might know. But summoning speed and quickness not normal for his age and throwing his cup into the nearby fireplace Kevan surged to his feet. The roar of the flames catching Tyrion shockingly unawares at the intensity of the moment, his eyes wide at his uncle._

 _"I may not be the man I was some years ago Tyrion Lannister," he growled in frustration, "but by the Seven if you disrespect my brother again I will horsewhip you until even your mother; gods bless and keep her, couldn't recognize you!" Mentioning his cousin Joanna of Lannisport was always a sore spot for Kevan. He was there for a few times during her happiness as well as her sorrows. Before Tyrion's birth she began to worry what would befall the child more so then her. She confided in Kevan and his siblings, but not her husband, of her fears and made them swear that the child would live. One of many secrets that Kevan has had to keep. Kevan reigned in his voice but a little, his tone no less furious at Tyrion's callous attitudes._

 _"This may come as some surprise or you may just outright deny it, but the truth is that it was myself, your aunt Genna, and your uncle Gerion; Seven watch over him, that convinced and/or persuaded your father from carrying you into the very ocean you just mentioned."_

 _"And yet from where I sit," Tyrion countered his own vocal tone matching his uncle's, "the great Tywin Lannister is an implacable man that once he gives an order, comes to a decision or focuses his will on something then nothing and no one can prevent him otherwise." A tense moment of silence between them as Kevan bit back a retort knowing it to be true. Still Tyrion carried on. "How might I ask did all of you somehow manage to 'persuade' the old lion?" A sneer from Tyrion further emphasizing his distaste for his father._

 _"We simply reminded him that despite what we and others might say you are a_ _ **Lannister**_ _," the memories of that grief-stricken moment slowly began to surface and engulf Kevan. He swallowed back those feelings snatched Tyrion's cup and took a swig. "A_ _ **Lannister**_ _," he said passing the cup back, "and all that it entails." He sighed heavily then proceeded to reacquaint himself with the stool. A quiet understanding became etched within Tyrion's mind as what he feared was somewhat spelled out for him._

 _"Then I am my father's son it seems." He too sighed before finishing his cups contents and pouring another. "No matter where I am I cannot escape the shadow of the man." For a moment remorse fills the words of Tyrion. "I am afraid that there is more of him within me than the woman that brought me upon this world." Kevan did not know how to best console his nephew but spoke gentle words as if speaking to a child lost._

 _"Our parents do not make us what we are, they only show us where we come from." Tyrion raised his gaze slowly towards Kevan. "Your mother told me something once that I thought silly then. Perhaps you will be a better judge." Kevan drew himself up and looked upward with eyes closed trying to remember the exact words. "None of us will ever know how we end, she said, but when you find yourself at the mercy of the gods you cannot simply say 'but I was told by others to do thus' or 'that virtue was not convenient at the time'. Our souls are in our keeping alone and what we do must also be answered in kind." Kevan closed his eyes abruptly. He squinted his brow in a possibly futile attempt to remember it all but to no avail. Reaching the conclusion then he sighed his mild frustration. "The only other thing I remember was this serene smile on her face, as if she was at peace with her choices in life."_

 _"Well uncle perhaps you were right." Kevan squinted his brow slightly in confusion to Tyrion. "This was a silly and poorly thought of way to cheer me up." A deep groan of annoyance escaped Kevan's throat._

 _"I must say a little enthusiasm of gratitude would not be amiss for my efforts." At that Tyrion adorned a look of deadly seriousness and shot upright of his chair without spilling his cup. He marched to the room's door flinging it open to the invasion of merriment, conversing conversations, music and other such noises from the main floor. Grabbing a secondary stool from the room's entrance way he made his way to the overlook balcony. Kevan followed his nephew cautiously, uncertain as to the intent that Tyrion had in mind. Tyrion paid no mind to anything save his one solitary course. Placing the stool near the rail and standing upon it he called to the now bursting to full tavern hall._

 _"_ _ **FOR A COMPANY OF WOLVES!**_ _" Kevan was startled by the deep boom of the commanding like voice Tyrion now exhibited. But no sooner when these words escaped him that practically all in attendance, men and women, stood up straight to attention and cup or mug in hand. Some appeared as if they should have been too far deep in their cups. Others looked to be too young to be in an establishment such as this. But all had the look and they waited unmoving for something to be done or said._

 _"_ _ **HERE'S TO US AND THOSE LIKE US!**_ _" Tyrion shouted once more upon the group, raising his cup in the air expecting a response. He was not disappointed as those gathered raised their own in salute with a shout of their own._

 _"_ _ **DAMN FEW!**_ _" Almost as one being every individual, Tyrion included, either took long finishing swigs or downed their drinks in one tortuous gulp. Immediately following everyone returned to previous activities and conversation whilst Tyrion turned from the rail; grabbing the stool and walking back to the room he made his point to his uncle abundantly clear._

 _"And that my dear uncle is about as enthusiastic as it gets around here." As Tyrion made his way back Kevan stood in, some might say, disbelief. In Westeros and indeed on his travels to find his nephew he has heard many tales of the 'Lion in Winter'. A farfetched romantic story of sorts of how a brave little lion amidst the wolves within their den during winters' fall. After enduring many trials hardships and great pains to prove his worth the lion became leader of the wolf packs slaughtering harpies and stallions in great numbers. From what he has seen and bore witness to firsthand the stories may yet bear some truth, thus making Tyrion either a great ally in the coming struggles or a fierce and terrible enemy to face. Kevan could only shake his head. Turning he proceeded to return to the room again._

 _"I accede to you Tyrion," Kevan proclaimed from the doorway, "I am impressed that you have done well despite the disadvantages that forced you to adapt. Nevertheless, your family calls for your aid." Tyrion's back was towards his uncle staring intently at a map of Westeros that bore heralds of the great and most notable families on the continent. A now refilled cup of brew sitting on the desk near a corner of the map. Tyrion gave no signs of acknowledgement as Kevan carried on. "Can you truly abandon us when those who conspire against House Lannister gather in shadow, plotting wroth and ruin for_ _ **all**_ _its members?" Silence and unease passed between them. Kevan had patience but his nephew was stretching it just far. Tyrion, for his part, began plotting and planning appropriate moves necessary for whatever lied ahead. So focused was he that most of what Kevan spoke fell on mute ears._

 _"TYRION!" Kevan spoke with just enough authority and force to rouse his relation from whatever muse he was preoccupied._

 _"Sadly, dear uncle it is late, you have travelled quite far and most likely will leave at first light." Tyrion not once moved so much as a hair to look upon his uncle. But despite the politeness of his tone the dismissal was very evident. One last time Kevan Lannister would not be denied his mission._

 _"I would have your answer now Tyrion Lannister." Tyrion slowly raised his head turning to look over his shoulder at Kevan with a smirk on his face and steel in his emerald green eyes._

 _"_ _ **Here me roar**_ _, uncle Kevan." With that Tyrion returned to his map and his thoughts. Kevan stood still and silent, pondering the message that he would no doubt return to his brother Tywin. Concluding he nodded respectfully towards his brother's youngest then disappeared away to seek evening accommodations. Some time had no doubt passed but Tyrion paid it no mind. Unbeknownst to him a young figure cautiously and gracefully made their way past the rooms' threshold. Sideling up to Tyrion's side a hand gently placed on his shoulder tore him away from his many thoughts._

 _"Who was that father," the young feminine voice spoke, like milk and honey laced in silk, "that man that you spoke to all this time?" Tyrion glanced up to the girl who for many years had been his pride and joy. Even in the now somewhat dim lighting she shone like a radiant sun, her features smooth and striking all at once. Flowing golden silk like hair and emerald colored eyes with a silver tint. As beautiful as her mother._

 _"Never you mind my sweet." Tyrion placated patting her hand with his own. Her gentle face showed she still worried for him. "But I am afraid you and I must plan for our journeys ahead." She nodded her head just so and set a neutral look upon her features knowing full well that this day would come eventually. She removed her hand and strode back to the door's entrance. Her father made movement upon the contents of his desk fulfilling readymade plans and orders to his small command section. She however had a greater purpose. To rouse awake a sleeping direwolf._

 _"_ _ **FETCH ME THE BLACK WOLF!**_ _" Her voice was loud and strong, used to giving commands to even the hardest of soldiers. As she roared the order from the doorway the sounds of several boots snapping to and running forth in search of their intended knew that her command was obeyed without question. 'Hear me roar,' she thought to herself, 'hear me roar.'_

 **Winterfell Courtyard**

Sounds and smells filled the air around them. Horseflesh and man flesh alike gave credence to the sensations around them. Happiness, fear, and anger. These were the strongest of the smells. The happiness came and went like the wind as the little ones expressed themselves innocently and without restraint. Fear and anger were expressed from the elders for reasons that were not known to them. When the call was given they gathered with their chosen to await the outsiders. When the outsiders arrived the troubles slowly began. And when the threat became real they reacted without fear; without hesitation.

Grey Wind and Ghost stood side by side but gathered some space between themselves to launch at the man-dog and man-lion. They smelled from them the greatest of threats and the fact that they were outsiders intruding on their den did not make things better.

 _If the man-lion goes for his teeth once more_ , Grey Wind snarled baring his fangs, _I'll rip the flesh right off his bones_.

 _Then the man-dog is mine brother_. Ghost growled his response.

Their siblings' own movements took on different stances. As the second oldest, or perhaps more mature, Lady had taken a protective stance more so than aggressive with her youngest brothers mirroring her steps to protect their chosen. Nymeria however was as conflicted as her chosen. On the one side she felt the strong need to protect the female man-pup from the fat man-stag. His aggressiveness was overwhelmingly strong, and to bring down such a prey would bring great honor amongst her pack. But the other side deemed it would bring more threats and shame to her chosen's family. In the end all she could muster was defiance in the face of this great man-beast. When the mountain boy intervened, the choice became certain.

 _As the ancient sires bear witness_ , she growled with teeth bared, _this fat stag shall lay dead at my chosen's feet as I sing in victory_. Her sister, though aggressively protective, was calm showing no teeth but still hunched her shoulders in readiness. Knowing what Nymeria planned she was most displeased.

 _You will do no such thing little one_. She growled low and soft. Loud noises and change of smells gave warning of new awareness. The sire of the chosen had made his presence known and the sense he gave off to them was one of an elder alpha, one of strength honor and respect. Yet there was sadness as well, a sense of loss and longing. Lady huffed a small sigh to her sister knowing there was no possible way to prevent her from challenging for leadership. _Not today little sibling but someday soon_.

The air was still heavy and thick with different smells, even with the elder alpha's interference. Still perhaps the greatest of surprises came from more outsiders; however, they smelt familiar somehow. Like long forgotten soil of the cold ground that is their home. They smelled like spice leaves, tall grass, and strange scented liquids upon their skins. But the dirt dried blood and strong heavy breathing was like the warriors of the lands. Much thinking was being done by the siblings on this even as the man things spoke words to each other; some low, some harsh, and some peaceful like.

 _So, this be the true cold lands I have smelled from my cub's friends._ The growling tone was deep and somber. The sheer power in it conveyed something more than alpha. It was greatness made flesh, a king among beasts. This newcomer was very much larger than even Grey Wind and Ghost in terms of size. Its smell permeated the air with the taste of something foreign and exotic. A great mane of hair shook with a small shake of its head and all along its body bore the great strength of its limbs. Lady quivered in admiration while Nymeria stared in deep awe of such a thing.

 _What is it you seek here golden beast_? Shaggydog huffed trying both to hide fear and intimidate the beast futilely. The tiny man thing that rode upon the creatures back dismounted gracefully despite the difference in size. As the creature's man thing master strode forth and spoke towards the taller man things the great golden beast simply walked toward Shaggydog, an air of arrogance pouring forth to fill his nostrils to the brim. The pack in that moment huddled together around Shaggydog. Grey Wind Ghost and Lady as the eldest stood first before it, defiance etched firmly in their postures.

 _Mind how you address me pup_ , the beast rumbled lowly, _you and your pack couldn't take me as you are now_. A slight shake of his mane displaying he was not worried in the slightest at the direwolves stance of unity. The wolves quivered in anticipation, ready for anything; but Ghost began to sniff curiously and cautiously at this beast; stepping closer towards it.

 _You speak as if you know us_. Ghost whined softly. _As if you_ _ **are**_ _us_. A yawn like growl escaped the great maw of teeth of the beast. Its eyes went from wolf to wolf measuring them of their worth. It raised itself fully towering over them in displaying its strength and power of dominance. The youngling wolves lowered themselves slightly, but the older siblings remained unbowed before it. Lady however was fearing for the safety of the pup siblings.

 _I know of you_. The gold beast grumbled. _And there is much you must learn_ ; it turned to stride off towards the empty horse dens scaring man things with its mere presence, _but not yet_. A soft purring smirk upon its lips.

 **Winterfell Tombs**

The caverns of the tombs were deep dank and dark. A reflection of the Stark family's origins, and their preference for things grim and practical. Interspersed along the walls at regular intervals were perpetually lit torches. They were established so that light would always shine, even in times of darkness. Within the somber atmosphere lied the grim-faced statues of Starks past, at the feet of each one a bonded direwolf. The way the shadows of the light danced upon each statue gave an eerie effect of being eternally watched and judged by those long since passed.

For his part it was many years since he had been in the family crypts. While Benjen did what he felt he had to do all those years ago a part of him even now felt ashamed for abandoning the family. As he walked along the paths with his older brother and his friend he could not shirk the feeling of so many judgmental eyes upon him. Though the walk itself was silent between the three of them there was a tense feeling surrounding them. Whether the air itself, the statues or some unspoken foreboding could not be known.

Still, regardless of Benjen's reasons for leaving he never thought to return home to find the troubles of others. Many words were said, and others needed not be said in the courtyard. To find his brother and friend with swords clashed was never a good sign for the family's' future.

"I don't remember it being this far into the crypts." Despite a few physical changes it was refreshing to know that Robert had not changed in personality. But what he implied seemed to clash with what Benjen knew and remembered. "Whoever decided to entomb her in this fucking place will die."

Benjens' offhand trailed to the pommel of his weapon; more so in a sense of familiarity than anything else. His right hand however began to curl into a balled fist, the straining of leather would have been noticed but was eclipsed by the sounds of marching boots and torch flames. Ned seemed to sense his younger brother's reaction and felt the same, but perhaps of getting long in the tooth he put things a different way.

"It's been too long for any of us to remember correctly." A slight look of sadness adorned his face at the memory, almost as if it pained him to even recall it. "Especially since the war's end required our full attention in other areas." So ultimately this was what he was convinced to return to. A fat drunken warmonger stuck in his own ways and an older brother who couldn't move on from the hauntings of the past. Tyrion you are a conniving dwarven bastard. He smiled inwardly knowing full well the golden-haired dwarfs' antics comments and shared adventures.

"Even though years have passed," he growled lowly still slightly angered, "I would know every crack and crevice of these tombs." Walking a longer stride he shoved past them both taking the lead. "Not much further." Unaware to Ben a small look was shared between Ned and Robert. Soon enough however they eventually came upon their destination.

Much similar in style and almost made from the same stone Lyanna Stark's tomb stood forever silent and grim. The few giant elders still skilled in the crafts of stone molded and shaped her statue to not only resemble herself in life like her ancestors, but also to somehow express her feelings as she stands forever silent in watchfulness. Of her features only, her face is shown. Her northern beauty shining through, her eyes closed in quiet sadness, her hands clasped around a small lantern etched with runes of power known only to those of old blood. A single candle burns brightly within as if lighting the way for others to find their way. She stands alone; her direwolf protector absent beside her. When Liana passed from this world her bonded wolf was nowhere to be found. Smallfolk claim that her wolf still runs the wildlands searching for her and that the lantern was made to light the way home.

The three men stood in silence, paying tribute to the one person who meant a great deal to each of them. Ben recalled all those times his big sister got him in and out of trouble. How she taught him how to ride and fight properly when others merely laughed or made fun of his learnings. He could see the smile of her eyes and hear the warmth of her laugh. Now, only the cold visage of her saddened face and the melted streaks of water for tears leaking from her eyes. Robert himself slowly withdrew a feather from a pouch upon his belt. A hawk's feather as Ben recalled that she was herself around Robert on the few times he invited her to hunt with him. Despite Robert's other faults she was forever grateful for what he allowed her to do.

As Robert slowly stepped forward to place the feather at her feet, his eyes never leaving her face, Ned had his head bowed in prayer. His whispered words lowly growled out to the old gods. Ben could only stare in shameful regret as memories of what happened and what might have been played within his mind. Almost in a state of waking sleep words escaped him before he knew what he spoke.

"I've missed her dearly." His brother finished his prayer as Ben spoke. "I'd almost forgotten what she looked like." Ned raised his head to address his youngest sibling. He knew truly that of the three of them present Ben was closest to Lyanna.

"You had a hand in creating her resting place Ben." Ned spoke in a somewhat comforting voice. "She would've understood, more than anyone, she would." Yet the words still felt hollow in Ben. Not truly what he wanted to hear, but the sentiment still allowed Ben some measure of relief. _Don't fool yourself in that thinking_ , he thought bitterly to himself. _You weren't there to save her in life_. _So how could you provide peace in death_. The idea of her statues design was perhaps his only contribution believing if he did the work himself the old gods would take pity on him. His prayers went unanswered; his sister forever frozen in time's sleep filled embrace.

"It never should have been as it was." He choked back the building sadness choosing once again to bury his emotions. "If anyone deserved to live it was her." He glanced briefly to his brother to know his displeasure still influenced Ned. After the war Benjen had said and done things that were spat with raw hurtful emotion. From that point on Ben and Ned could never be the same as they once were. Ben chose his own path, forsaking hearth home and familial ties to become the leader of the renowned legion. He worked hard, endured great hardship, and somehow survived many 'wars' that should have seen him dead. In the end the cruelty of the old gods prevents him from meeting his end. _Lyanna_.

"She shouldn't be down here at all in this fucking gods-forsaken frozen crypt!" The Baratheon King's anger made itself known to the two men who quickly turned ice cold gazes upon him. "She belonged with me out in the open with the sun shining down on her and the wind in her hair." Robert's eyes stared longingly at the woman that was betrothed to marry him. It no doubt drove him mad for many years that the one woman that he 'loved' could not be his to claim. Ben turned back to Ned only to find his brother in typical silence, choosing to let his friend relive events as he saw them without correction or altercation for fear of turning him mad from grief. Ben grit his teeth in likewise silence, balling his gloved fists that this could damn his sister's memory.

"Every night in my sleep," his tone shifted recalling the memories of the war, "I kill him. I kill him and kill him over and over. And yet her name from his mouth is the last thing I hear before the hammer crushes his fucking skull!" The volume of his booming voice slowly rises with each syllable emphasizing the raw emotion spewing forth from every fiber of his person as if it will somehow change what happened. Ned finally looks up to assuage whatever feelings he believes Robert to be showing.

"The _**war**_ ," he says carefully and calmly to his old friend, "is over Robert. Whatever happened were the best possible outcomes in a mad war that began and ended with a mad king." Robert dropped his head down before snapping it around to stare directly at the eldest Stark almost in confused disbelief.

"The best?" He started low and inquisitive in an accusatory manner. "The best possible outcome?" He pointed sharply to Lyanna's statue, "She's _**dead**_! How is that the best possible outcome?!" Even in the darkly lit tombs the redness of his features was beginning to burn hotly. "I should've killed Rhaegar before he started this whole fucking mess at Harrenhal; I should've killed the 'Mad King' before he had your father and brother killed." Ben was nearing his limit, "Every record of that accursed family should be destroyed from existence."

"Is that why you sought to kill my ward in the courtyard?" Ned growled out the words almost through clenched teeth. His eyes were shining from the fire light but appeared as if staring into them left you void without a soul. His features were neutral and void of emotion in his search for why Robert was set in this way. "That young lad and his siblings were not even born when what happened to _my_ family came to past." Robert did not even seem fazed nor dissuaded from his perspective.

"The boy's family is just as guilty for supporting those filthy dragon spawn." He grunted with a huff. "The Dayne's mayhaps be Dornish but they married into Targaryen blood just as that whore Visenya spread her legs for a fucking Perturabo." He hacked off a gob to the side hitting one of the cavern walls. In any other place and under somewhat normal circumstances this would have mattered not to Ben or Ned; but to see it take place in their family's crypts and in front of Lyanna's statue was enough.

"You _**dare**_!" The raw anger that had dwelled within Benjen now began to surface. His brother and the Baratheon King turned once more upon him. "It's not enough you presume to admit your heathen self upon my family's crypts, but you truly believe in some mad twisted way that she was yours mind, body, and spirit." The air around them began to somehow get colder with each word that passed from Ben's mouth. Ned was slightly worried what his brother would do to his old friend. "Now you spit insult after insult without care or concern for others." He turned to his brother.

"This is the man you supported in the war over the Mad King?" Ned slowly draped his head in silence knowing truth in his younger brother's words but ashamed to voice it. "It is no wonder you lost my sister _Baratheon_." Robert's eyes and face perked to attention at the insinuated insults.

"You mind your tongue—"

"Damn it to all the hells, the war is over—"

" _ **NOTHING IS OVER**_!" The loud boisterous fury was unleashed, the sound echoing and carrying to every crack and crevice within the cavernous confines and the occupants that rested within. The declaration shocked the three men into various forms of stupor. Benjen would say no more to either. He shuffled slowly to his sisters resting place and reverently removed his blade. His right knee dropped to the ground, his swords' point towards the ground and his hands resting on the pommel with head bowed in silent prayer. Robert was still drunk on fury and would have proceeded with his course were it not for Ned. Ned stood tall between his little brother and old friend silently conveying the result of what would transpire should he carry on. Robert only nodded once in affirmation then turned on his heel to leave sparing only one last glance at the only woman he truly loved. When that was done he left; echoes of his footfalls resounding. Ned knew better than to disturb his little brother in prayer, but still felt he needed to know what it was that brought him back.

"In case you're wondering Ben, he does not know." The air of the cavern warmed considerably as if a weight was being lifted. "When you leave," Ned spoke over his shoulder at his brother, "take him with you. Westeros will not be safe for him." With that finality Benjen's brother strode off back to rejoin the world above. Ben could only grieve in silence at how everything had become for those he once knew.

"I'm so sorry Lyanna." As he whispered these words softly the statue of his sister began to weep fresh tears.

 **Author's Note:** _It has been challenging but this chapter is done. Truth be told there was more I wanted to tell and probably could have elaborated more in some parts, but for better or worse the story MUST go on. There may be bits and pieces that may be plagiarized or borrowed without permission. To this I deeply apologize. One, this is Fanfiction where everything fiction is retold or rewritten by us the fans to tell stories as we want them told. Two, anything mentioned or used in the story that doesn't seem canon or universe related well play a part or two; promise. With the end of the year holidays fast approaching I better get a move on and will be no doubt busy with work and family. I hope everyone truly appreciates the chapter and the story so far. As always constructive criticisms and opinions accepted._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	7. Chapter 6: Look to the East

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones VI-**

 **Pentos, Across the Narrow Sea**

The air smelled wrong. For almost all her life a vast myriad amount of smells has assaulted her senses in places many would either think her unworthy of or simply not belonging to. She has been forced to adapt to new and strange surroundings, travelling by foot wagon and horse wherever labor was _rewarded_ or where _service_ was needed. She eventually grew to dislike the smell and taste of men. The arrogance that permeated the air around them that nothing was denied to them and that all women served them. The fine clothed women were just as intolerable. They believed that none matched their beauty whatever its form and men would kill each other just to be in their presence. For one reason or another she was passed from one house to the next never experiencing the true joys of childhood and shared like fine wine amongst many in her flowered years.

Much of that time seems like a nightmare or dream that was lived by some other girl. When she first arrived and was presented to them she was treated like the simple dirt that covers the ground. When the stallions sought to mount her, she stood firm like an unyielding mountain of stone. Instead they tried beating and breaking the strength from her, but she would not yield. Finally, a blood rider of the Khal strode forth in challenge. Despite his age he was as skilled as any of the younger warriors; both in combat and the ways of riding. Unlike the others of the horde he saw within her a strength other did not yet see. A strength she did not yet fully possess.

When they fought it was said to be a mighty battle between the Great Stallion himself against the Mother of the Mountain. The passing of time meant nothing to them, only that moment of battle where the warriors blood called. As the end drew near he tried numerous times to mount her in dominance only for her to throw him off in defiance. On the last attempt, with both fighters battered bruised and bleeding, it was she that mounted him. Before the horde, Khal, gods and ancestor spirits they claimed each other as kindred soulmates. An orgy of blood sweat, and mounts followed in their wake. With that she had earned her place within the horde, learning the all that was required and needed to be a Dothraki rider.

However, because of her foreign blood she was never true blooded rider. Her mate soon joined the Great Stallion in the endless skies. His legacy now reflected in her. Since then she is one of many riders in the Dothraki horde of Khal Drogo, son of Barbaro. She has not found one who could match herself or best her in any way. The Khal as is his want has taken her, but what others do not know that they do is that he does so only because she allows it. For a time, the Dothraki life was fulfilling but whispers were fast becoming spread like wildfire throughout the Great Grass Sea of the stone-mare with the frozen heart; an outrider never to be accepted. Khal Drogo would not allow anything harmful to be said or done to her, but she did not belong to him; nor anywhere it seems. So instead she chose to leave the horde that became her home and family.

The day she was to leave the Khal called upon her to ride with him and his three brothers to a stone city by the sea. The Khal did not show it for he is fearless, but it was important enough to have him call on her; no greater honor could be bestowed. And so, she rode spurring her horse ever faster, the wind blowing fiercely into her braided hair. A feral grin and banshee shriek the only forewarning of her coming. She knew not what awaited them at the end yet knew it was not quite what she saw all the same.

 **Palace of Illyrio Mopatis**

The air smelled wrong. For almost all her life a vast myriad amount of smells has assaulted her senses in places many would either think her unworthy of or simply not belonging to. She has been forced to adapt to new and strange surroundings. For one reason or another she was passed from one house to the next never experiencing the true joys of childhood. Much of that time seems like a nightmare or dream that was lived by some other girl. A girl forced to beg in the streets for food scraps or handouts of clothing. Eventually this girl and her eldest brother were found by a wealthy merchant of Pentos.

He claimed to be taking them in out of kindness and loyalty. She did not know loyalty at first, it's meaning, like everything else, washing over her like a mildly strong yet gentle breeze from the sea. Many things for most of her life were decided for her. When to speak, what to wear, where to go, who to speak to and how to act. In between when she made mishaps her brother would become disappointed. A fact that he would terrifyingly reveal in private as 'waking the dragon'.

Yet there were moments, few moments that she had to herself where she could close her eyes and imagine herself soaring amidst the clouds. Looking down upon the lands and seas below with wonder and excitement knowing that nothing and no one could prevent her from being free. But such is not to be.

"Where is he?" The almost pitched whine of her brother gave voice to the mystery of their circumstance. She cared not why anyone wanted to meet her or her brother. She had no doubt that whatever the reason of lateness it was probably well justified.

"The Dothraki are not well known for their punctuality." The response from the merchant was well mannered, measured, and carefully phrased to avoid the tantrum like anger of her brother. She could not fault him his caution. Yet there were times she wondered if he provoked to elicit a reaction. They conversed briefly, and, in that time, she tried to remember what exactly she was required to perform or say.

The gathering was small and grand at the same time. The entrance to the garden palace was decorated with silk streamers, the servants and household slaves positioned off to the side or behind. The garbs they wore looked simple yet expensive to reflect the way the 'master' treated those that attend him and his. She knew not how to feel seeing another in bondage, but it somehow felt; dirty. She was a little girl when she first saw a bound servant. Since then she has grown somewhat immune to their situation; combined with her brother constantly spewing things like, 'dragons need not concern themselves with lesser base creatures.' And with that it was dismissed, for while she let her mind wander horse riders had arrived. Their fearsome presence frightened her more than the garbs of cloth leather and varying levels of fabric. They were a nomadic warrior race of people.

Compared to them in appearance she was dressed in pure white silk accentuating all her budding curves. Her skin was bathed in water laced with lavender and honey, which allowed her to give a somewhat glowing sensation. Her brother standing opposite wore dark black and silver cloths. If not for the matching pure white hair and dark lilac colored eyes they could be described as opposites in personality, mannerisms, and dress. As the merchant strode forth speaking the harsh language of the Dothraki tongue her brother quietly held her wrist, forcing her to stay in place.

"Look there my sweet sister," his whispered voice soft and low, but no less hard, "there is the great Khal Drogo himself." She beheld the warrior leader with open eyes. His sundried olive skin appeared as if it was muscled perfection. Every move he made was skilled motion, she was a flurry of mixed emotions staring into the dark handsome features of his eyes. The horse he rode upon seemed to be apart of him as was it in the way they moved endlessly while his eyes never moved from hers. Even without the horse he had to be the tallest man in the world. As he continued to move his braided hair whipped this way and that as if there was a constant breeze blowing it behind him. "They say that when a Dothraki is defeated the shame is so great they remove the braid."

If what he said was true, then Khal Drogo had never been defeated. His braid went all the way down his back to his belt. But a curious thought crossed her mind, who was the long-braided warrior who rode with them?

 **I**

She could not believe at first what was happening and why. She had heard rumors that the Khal was taking a mate but did not expect someone so; foreign. The girl was enchantingly beautiful, that was not to be questioned, but her body was small; frail and not possibly capable of enduring Dothraki life. A loud breath of contempt passed from her lips at the young girl who was beckoned forth by the fat bearded merchant. While there for all to hear the Khal grunted in her direction his displeasure. The white-haired young man smirked at this exchange. She would teach him soon enough his lessons.

Without word she dismounted from her horse for a closer look. When she was close enough to touch and smell the girl she knew at once how her Khal was fallen for her; even if he did not say. She slowly ran her rough leathered fingertips across the girl's body, feeling every curve and line thinking of ways to 'teach' her properly. The girl at one point drew an intake of breath shivering at the touch of her breasts. The smirk was gone from the boy replaced instead with worry. The fat merchant made to interrupt in protest but was stopped by the great Khal. She leaned close to whisper in her ear only to smell honeyed milk and flowers. She was sorely tempted now to take the girl herself.

 **II**

She could not believe at first what was happening and why. Sensations she had never experienced assaulted her senses; and from a _woman_ of all things. The woman was skilled at this, that much soon became certain. Yet her scars that were scattered throughout her body told a story of hardships and many battles. Her skin was as sundried as the others but had a lighter shade as if she was not native to the lands she roamed. She stood barely at chest height to this female warrior, staring up into deep ebony shade orbs that seem to captivate her attention. The female warrior's braided hair, a deep raven black, was sun bleached with streaks of red as if her hair when riding was ablaze with fire. The muscles of her exposed arms and stomach were finely tuned, almost begging to be touched; out of curiosity of course. Her fingers twitched at the thought believing it was her intent to do so. The tall female warrior seemed to give a predator like smirk down at her as if knowing what it was she sought to do in kind. But just as quickly it was there it was gone replaced by a cold mask of stone. The warrior turned to Khal Drogo and without uttering a word slowly nodded her head.

The Khal nodded his head in turn and in the same moment galloped away with his three male companions. Her brother ran forward to where the horse riders originally were stopping to watch them vanish in the distance. A growing look of confused fury began to show upon his features.

"What just happened?" He asked a little excitedly his gaze going from herself to the vanished Khal.

"It is over, the ceremony has ended your grace." The merchant responded evenly. His posture barely changing from a neutral position since it ended. Her brother stood still in silence but not for long.

"Did he like her?" He asked simply.

"Believe me little boy," the voice that spoke was harsh and rough yet there was a softness to the quality almost like a gentle sea breeze, "if my Khal did not _**like**_ your sister," she strode forward to nearly tower over him with her presence leaning close for him to hear, " _ **I**_ would not be here."

She did not know what compelled her to do so, but a very small smile briefly passed.

 **Author's Note:** _A brief filler-like chapter. Personally, debating whether to include or make a separate adventure story all together. Either way I am now on a roll the next chapter to be posted soon depending on life circumstances. As always comments/polite criticisms are appreciated._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	8. Chapter 7: Flight of Dragons

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones VII-**

 **Winterfell, The Great Hall**

The feast was now fully underway. With quantities of food and drink provided and various forms of entertainment occupying their attention it seemed as if the soldiers, warriors, and guardsmen of Stark Lannister and Baratheon were long lost brothers or comrades in arms. For at the very least Sansa truly believed that the tensions of earlier that day would be forgotten. That for this feast all was peaceful. The hall was decorated with banners and streamers of all the houses gathered, with special attention paid to House Baratheon and Lannister. Houses of the King and Queen respectively. The chandeliers burned almost endlessly with candles and oiled torches lining the walls with the halls' great fireplace adding extra warmth and light.

The warriors of House Umber, led by Small Jon, were the rowdiest and noticeably well deep into their drinks even before the feast truly started. Several times between courses the king himself was seen amongst the low tables sharing drinks and telling old war stories to those still capable of listening. The men of House Mormont were huddled away in a part of the hall shouting encouragement for one of their own in some sort of game against a member of the Lannister guards; his own comrades cheering him on. Horwood's and Bolton's were giving a somewhat hysterical interpretation of their rendition of 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', much to the amusement of some of the Baratheon men and the younger children.

Prince Tommen, a somewhat shy and timid thing at first glance, was staring around in wonder and amazement at how at ease the Stark children were with the household staff and guardsmen. There were moments that Bran would show him one or two of the guards by name and tell all the war stories they experienced. It was funny and cute the way Bran seemed to treat the young prince, showing off what he knew like it was the greatest thing ever. Prince Tommen himself was soaking up as much as he could. At least till Theon came over to them and told the ' _real_ ' story of things causing Bran to turn slightly red from embarrassment. Princess Myrcella, who was currently dancing with Robb, laughed heartily at the little spectacle.

Arya on the other hand was her usual self, running and dancing like the wild she-wolf she is. At times she would try joining the men in whatever game or contest they were involved in. That is until Russ and Dacey interrupted and knock her down a peg or two. All in all, the majority gathered were enjoying themselves.

The same could not be said for some however. Sansa could see that the Queen was either displeased or disgusted by something, possibly both. Despite the best efforts of her mother it looked like nothing would cheer the Queen from her current state. Sansa was herself engaged in conversation with the eldest son Prince Joffrey who commented every so often or two how pretty she was to him. Sansa herself was polite in every way possible, asking questions about the south and of Prince Joffrey's adventures; smiling shy smiles at his comments of her beauty.

When Sansa was a little girl, she was always told just how much like her mother she was. The Tully auburn red hair, the piercing blue eyes, and a smile that shined as brightly as the summer sun. Always told and reminded how much she was so alike that a slight feeling arose from this. The only ones to notice was her sister, when she was old enough to understand, and Dacey who herself had similar difficulties. She did not wish to disappoint either of her parents' expectations. Thus, she tried to learn everything she possibly could. She learned Water Dancing from a Braavosi master, took to her studies like it was second nature, and her skills in other ladylike areas were always praised by her septa as excellence without equal.

While all this seemed harmless it nearly drove a wedge between her and her siblings in that she was perceived better somehow than any of them. Not true in Sansa's opinion for while she strove for perfection in whatever she did she desired nothing more than the love of her family. True for a time the romanticism of the south captivated her thoughts the were tempered by the what her father once said to her.

 _The lone wolf dies while the pack survives_.

This sudden thought recalled her brother Jon. She glanced about for him to see where within the hall he might be but knew well enough where he was.

 **Winterfell, Training Yard**

Solitude is a great and terrible thing to experience. For Jon the sounds of his blade singing through the air, slashing and hacking upon the training post left him feeling truly alone with only his thoughts. Ghost was silently and studiously observing Jon's every move with the blade in his hand. It was as if he was committing to memory how his chosen preferred to fight, but at the same time his ears drooped down and back in nervous worry; sensing the unsettling emotions of Jon with every impacted swing. So deep into what he was involved in was Jon that he did not notice an audience watching him practicing.

"Is it dead yet _bastard_?" The voice alone shocked Jon's senses to snap back to the here and now. Jon turned his head repeatedly searching for the owner of the voice. Ghost needed no such searching and proceeded towards the general direction of where it came from. Jon noticed Ghost's movements quickly and called out to the former empty yard.

"Who's there? Show yourself!" His temper was risen slightly as being reminded of his status was a prickly and touchy subject for Jon Snow. He would tolerate it amongst friends and family, but when others spoke the words it was always in disgust like something to be hated or shunned. The figure seemed unconcerned; even from the shadows that he or she currently occupied. Ghost despite his senses in knowing the figure was there growled his displeasure, adjusting his posture to reflect it. A deeper growling hiss was the retuning response which surprised Ghost.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," spoke the shrouded voice as it slowly emerged from the shadows, "but I just happened by and could not help noticing your form." As he spoke a gold colored beast emerged from the shadows. "And I must say it was…"

"Impressive?" Jon asked both proud and sarcastic at his observer.

"Hardly." Tyrion almost deadpanned. He stepped closer to Jon and pointed at him with a mug in his hand. "Your form is good, your foot movements need work, and if the techniques do not improve it might as well be sloppy." Having said his piece Tyrion proceeded to take small swigs from his mug. Jon on the other hand was appalled that a _dwarf_ would call his technique sloppy.

"I'll have you know that I'm the best swordsman of Winterfell." Jon stated with a little pride in his voice. "Ser Rodrick Cassel has even said so." Tyrion did not appear convinced or impressed.

"Yes," some sarcasm entering his tone looking up at the young man before him, "but unfortunately for him he has never been anywhere else." He quickly glanced about his surroundings. "And if you're the best then I pity the others here." Once more he took a couple swigs of his drink before removing a wineskin from behind him to refill it. Jon was becoming more and more incensed by this _dwarf_ that seemed to question or challenge every aspect of his capabilities.

"I never asked for your opinion…" He started staring intensely upon Tyrion.

"Dwarf. Half-man. Little shit." Only for the serious quick reply of said person who, despite having drunk possibly a lot, would not tolerate the foolishness of youth. "If you're going to insult me at least be more original." He briefly paused to put away the wineskin, take a couple _**more**_ swigs, and then absentmindedly scratch behind his feline companion's ear. "Besides," after silently concluding a decision with himself, "I don't recall needing your permission; _bastard_."

"Stop calling me that." Jon seethed lowly. This was testing his nerve in ways he was not used to. He was used to the look's whispers and insinuated insults from others growing up in the North, but to be blatantly called out in public drew out his ire that no one else seemed to do save Theon and Russ.

"Oh, so sorry." Tyrion mockingly bowed his head with a flourish, his words almost honeyed with sarcastic glee at his intent. "Did I offend you; _bastard_?" He now appeared to enjoy taunting the young man either for amusement or for some other agenda.

"I'm not a bastard!" Jon raged loudly calling the attention of the furred companions currently present. Ghost was more and more shifting and snarling becoming more feral as the conversation progressed. Tyrion's lion companion moderately roared a challenge to the white direwolf stepping in front of the golden-haired Lannister in protectiveness.

" **IDRISSA**!" Tyrion's commanding authority was felt deeply by those currently present. Ghost remained defensively still beside his chosen, but neither growled or snapped a muscle choosing instead to remain still. Idrissa cocked his head to the side once or twice but did not remove his gaze from the direwolf pair before him. Tyrion placed a firm yet gentle grip upon the base of the creature's neck keeping him still if not docile. Tyrion lowered his gaze, breathing deeply the crisp night air he altered his posture slightly before looking at Jon.

"And I am not a dwarf, young master Snow." While patronizing it also conveyed a sense of seriousness. "What a great and wondrous world we live in." He now spoke calmly to defuse the tension somehow. He swept his arms wide for dramatic effect before offering Jon a swig from his mug. "Well I suppose I can teach you something." Jon, for his part, was cautious and observed the contents to find a mostly clear liquid within.

"I already know how to drink thank you." Tyrion simply raised an eyebrow in slight annoyance at this. With an aggravated sigh Jon took the proffered mug for a sip. But to the dwarf's delight Jon began coughing a fit, Ghost whined in concern using his body to support his chosen's lack of balance.

"Wonders never cease," a chuckle escaping Tyrion's throat, "a Stark _can_ make a joke." He laughed just a little more at Jon's expense. Then all at once he indicated with his free hand towards a nearby stump. "Hand me that hatchet." Taken aback Jon could not comprehend such a request. The hatchet itself was not a cumbersome tool for it had a slim handle. The blade and head while having some weight was still narrow and proportionate enough for the handle to bear. Jon stared incuriously at the dwarven Lannister but realizing that he would not be denied retrieved the weapon from its place and handed it over to him.

Tyrion stalked over to a more open spot taking a few practice swings to adjust to the feel of it. Idrissa and Ghost stayed off to the side sensing what was to come between their human companions. Satisfied with the weapon in hand Tyrion adjusted the cloak upon his shoulders so that it draped over one side. His mug was placed beside his lion friend for safe keeping. Jon himself remembered his lessons taking a few swings himself of the hand-and-a-half sword he chose for himself. When he himself was satisfied he turned to his opponent for a little surprise.

"Aren't you going to take some sort of fighting stance?" Jon asked out of concern for his short-sized sparring partner. Tyrion was stood with his feet evenly spread apart, his right hand held the hatchet by the head with the handle resting along his arm and the blade facing outward. His left arm was concealed by the crimson cloak he wore from shoulder to waist belt. Unbeknownst to Jon Tyrion possessed a surprise for the young lad beneath it.

"I'm actually more comfortable in this position thank you." A chuckled smirk upon his features. "Begin when ready; _bastard_." The smirk became more devious as he spoke. Now being invited to teach this _dwarf_ his place Jon howled forth in attack his sword poised at his side. However, as the lesson went on, there were two individuals watching the exchange from the shadows with great interest. When they were satisfied, they silently made their way towards the Great Hall. The clash of weapons ringing though the yard behind them.

 **The Great Hall II**

"…you play?" The question was both quick and unexpected. Sansa had almost embarrassed herself in front of the Queen and her mother by missing it.

"I was told by your mother that you play, perhaps you could provide a demonstration?" To Sansa it looked like everything the Queen said or did seemed genuine and warm. But always a deep nagging suspicion in the back of her mind spoke otherwise. She pushed the thoughts away to focus on the here and now.

"Of course, your Grace." Sansa bowed her head, dipping into a curtsey as courtesy demanded. Sansa's mother made a gesture to a passing servant, whispering a certain command to retrieve something. Sansa was now beginning to feel anxious at how this would play out. A part of her always wanted to perform in front of the King and Queen. And second to that was a large crowd of people clapping singing along or cheering for her talents. The two combined now seemed to overwhelm her; added to it the events of earlier that day made this ' _demonstration'_ even more important, not just for her but for her family as well. She began to search desperately for a pillar of personal support. Someone who on more than one occasion gave encouragement and assistance when no one was able or chose not to. Looking over her shoulder behind her she found whom she needed.

"Might I suggest," Sansa said turning back to face the Queen, "that Lord Domeric join me as well." Her face was smiling with hopeful enthusiasm but was scared entirely that her idea would be rejected. Especially when it was announced by the King that she would be promised to Prince Joffrey. The Queen's face remained pleasantly neutral with her gaze currently on Sansa, even as she absently gently swirled the contents of her wine goblet. Her emerald eyes then shifted it's focus upon the fore mentioned person. Domeric sat calmly and almost quietly amongst the Bolton retinue. His features seemed striking and fair as if he was the Maiden and Warrior at once. His hair was loosely braided back with a few long strands slightly concealing the deep pit eyes he bore. Some whisper that he was as soulless as his leech lord sire, but Sansa knew better than anyone the true heart he had within.

"The young man play's?" The Queen asked sweetly. Her face showing curious skepticism for such an unknown young heir; to the Dreadfort of all places.

"Yes, your Grace." Sansa more than excitedly replied. "Probably much better than I." She then shyly blushed at a suddenly private memory, but remembering her courtesies bowed her head in curtsey. Queen Cersei remained silent. Mentally contemplating different outcomes of whatever choices, she made.

"Please your Grace," interjected Lady Stark, "I have every faith that my daughter and young Lord Domeric will outperform any minstrel or performance troupe you have heard." Sansa could see clear the pride her mother bore on her face as she spoke. But in supporting Sansa she felt just a little bit more of the heavy feeling of the air more. The Queen remained silent a bit more in contemplation.

"Very well then." She spoke in finality much to Sansa's elation. Right about then the servant from before returned with a heavily clothed bundle, presenting it reverently to Sansa; who was very happy to have it at this moment. After paying respects she very nearly bolted for her performance partner swerving and twisting this way and that to reach him.

When she reached him, she was nearly out of breath and smiling brightly upon him. At first, he did not even notice her arriving next to him. Least until someone else nudged him in the right direction. He returned a small smile to her and would have asked why she happened to be there; but he noticed wordlessly the bundle that was protectively clutched to her chest. His gaze rose back to meet hers and nodding a silent confirmation he rose from his seat. The two made their way carefully to the center of the hall to perform.

As they did so Arya noticed her elder sister moving about with Domeric. Realizing with glee what that might mean she forcefully grabbed Small Jon by the shirt sleeve and whispered into his ear. An amazing feat as he was showing signs of losing coherency. But at the mention of Domeric and of Sansa caught his attention to sobriety.

" **ALL RIGHT THEN YOU ROWDY SONS OF BITCHES**!" Small Jon barely stood to attention on top of the table he resided at but stand he did; and in a shepherd's pie or two for good measure. It also silenced all gathered within the hall. Not a sound of voice or movement was made until what was said was said. " **WE ARE TO BE HONORED WITH** , **IN THIS FUCKER'S HUMBLE OPINION** ," he staggered and mumbled a little with his eyes fluttering slightly; yet carried on, " **THE LADY SANSA STARK WILL PLAY A SONG TO MAKE THE GODS THEMSELVES WEEP WITH EMOTION**!" With a final raising of his glass in salute he fell back into the arms of Russ and Daryn who simply rolled their eyes at their comrade's antics.

Domeric closed his eyes with a heavy sigh of embarrassment while Sansa giggled in amusement. They stood close to each other with the bundle now revealing a golden harp and flute. The harp bore stallion heads facing away from the center strings representing his mother's House. The flute was a name day present from her uncle Benjen when he was stationed for a time in the exotic lands of Yi Ti. It bore running direwolves along the length of the instrument. The design of instruments belied a level of craftsmanship few, if any, could equal or best.

"Are there any requests for the evening?" Sansa asked somewhat nervously spinning slowly about for any such requests. There were a few to be certain; the 'Rains of Castamere' chief among them. Sansa would not have had the heart to play a hateful tune, but the song was very popular amongst the Lannister's of the Westerlands for good reason. She nodded her head somewhat sorrowfully, lifting the flute to her lips when an unknown voice from the halls entrance called out firm yet gently.

"Play a song of times long forgotten." All eyes were now on the newcomer and her companion. A lady of such grace and beauty that bested, if not rivaled, that of the Queen. She wore a Dornish styled dress accentuating any and all the appropriate curves upon her figure. The dress itself was glittering this way and that with the many diamonds inlaid into the dress. Her slightly suntanned skin showed in areas to capture the attention of all the men gathered. In all she seemed to give an almost ethereal-like presence in the Great Hall.

Her companion wore deep midnight pitch leathers, a heavy thick black cloth was wrapped about his eyes with the tied ends trailing behind him. He stood like a warrior of old gazing sightless about the room. Searching perhaps that which could not be easily found. The only off color marking he bore was that of a white raven with wings spread centered on the cloth covering his sight.

"Go on." The lady encouraged again gently. Sansa did not bother to glance about the room. Her eyes were squared solely upon the amethyst color of this enchantingly mysterious lady. Sansa placed the instrument to her lips as Domeric had begun lilting a soft somber tune of an age none can remember save the gods and ancestors past. Sansa closed her eyes summoning forth the images and feelings that lied deep within her to pour forth within the notes of the song. The notes began to fill the room, one by one captivating and capturing the attention of all who heard it.

Grown hard men; who had seen battles and hardships, began to openly shed silent tears. The women both high and low born gathered in a circle surrounding the two young minstrels dancing gracefully to the rhythm. The men began a slow pounding of their fists and cups to match the beats of the song almost like a heart keeping the rhythm alive. Midway thru the traveling performers joined in with various accompanying instruments that in no way harmed the overall melody of the song. Truly, in all a wondrous sight to behold.

Sansa herself did not see any of this. For so focused was she that all there was the rhythm within her heart, the harmony of her soul; and the melody of emotions playing a tale that first caught her interest when she first heard tales of the south from her mother. She knew not the stretch of time, the strain of her somewhat delicate fingers upon the instrument, or the burning sensation within her lungs but ultimately the song slowly neared its end. The only sounds within this great and mighty hall were the solitary echoes of an emotional young girl's instrument of emotion.

Sansa opened her eyes and gazed about the hall then, seeing not a dry eye remaining anywhere. Her family and friends bore prideful smiles amidst tear-streaked faces. The King and Queen simply nodded slightly in her direction before clasping hands and retiring for the night. The royal children were also equally impressed, though showed such thoughts in different ways. And thus, so ended the feast and the happiness of days past. Sansa sadly could not shake an eerie sense that 'Winter Is Coming.'

 **Pentos, Palace of Illyrio Mopatis**

A long slow and somewhat painful sigh escaped from her lips as she lowered herself into the relaxing hot water. She was warned before hand by the female house servants that the water was too hot to be entered as is. To this she paid them no mind and entered anyway, especially after the last couple days she had endured.

The female warrior, whose name was revealed as Elyssa, was left behind by Khal Drogo to ensure that his new bride to be was worthy and capable to live the life of a Khalessi. To this end Elyssa taught many things to Daenerys. How to mount ride and handle horses. How to walk talk and move with purpose and strength. And, most importantly, the language culture and fighting style of the Dothraki. All of it for certain took its toll on Daenerys's body. She thought her skin was being stretched, cracked or pulling with different levels of pain in places she did not know were capable of such strain.

Elyssa herself was the image of a wildfire made flesh in every instance. Anytime Dany made a mistake or slip up Elyssa was there to chew her up then spit her back out like unwanted food. Elyssa would point and shout at times, emphasizing every syllable and word for Dany to understand what was being said and what needed to be done. Once or twice she cried during these harsh lessons only for Elyssa to once again jump all over her.

" _Do not shed wasted tears little girl_." She had screamed then in her harsh tone. " _One day you will be a Queen of some distant land where servants will do everything for you. During that time, you may have the pleasure of tear shedding_." She pointed to herself for enthusiastic emphasis. " _But soon you shall be a Khal's wife, and it is my responsibility to ensure you are at least somewhat learned of what awaits you. It is tough, it is harsh, and above all_ _ **unforgiving**_."

Behind Elyssa's back Dany's brother, Viserys made jib's and jests that as the 'true heir' to the iron throne a woman could not possibly have what was required to rule and that a savage like Elyssa was just a man born in a female body. Dany had asked in private of Illyrio what her brother had meant by that only to receive assurances that it was of no consequence. Daenerys felt trapped and isolated now between her brother's wrath, Illyrio's indifference, and now Elyssa's harshness. Her mind felt heavy and unbearable as she did not know what else to do to alleviate things.

Yet there were still silent moments, like now, when she could just once again wash everything away and be free to fly. Another long slow sigh escaped her lips.

"This feels so very wonderful." Dany slowly leaned her head back dipping her silvery white hair into the hot oiled water, then rising again to feel the soothing caress upon her skin. Her hands roaming gently in circled motions feeling beyond anything what words could possibly describe as natural bliss.

"It most certainly does." Spoke an unexpected voice. A mouse-like squeak of embarrassment escaped Daenerys as she submerged her body, save the head, beneath the water. Her face and cheeks began to flush not from the water but from the awkwardness of being caught enjoying the sensations of her solitude. The newcomer chuckled at her discomfiture as she strode proudly across the room to the bathing pool that Daenerys currently resided in. Not a single scrap of clothing covered her personage, so comfortable she was in her skin with the night air breezing upon her muscularly toned curves.

Dany was both intrigued and intimidated when this woman was clothed in daylight. But now she could not deny that seeing her lighted up in this fashion baring to the world all of herself left Dany feeling **more** than what she initially felt; a **lot** more. Elyssa slowly eased into the water. She chose a spot a few feet to Dany's right, leaning back and placing her arms along the edge of the pool. Closing her eyes, she did what Dany herself did moments earlier. Silence filled the room as the two women shared the hot watered bath that amazed Dany just a little as she believed herself the only one to do so. Every so often she stole small glances at Elyssa as if trying to find something to discuss with her, but knowing practically nothing about her.

"You and I are much the same you know." Daenerys was startled a little by the sudden softness of Elyssa's voice. "We were both born in the same distant lands of our people, and yet raised many leagues by those who would have nothing to do with us save for personal reasons of insignificance." Faded memories of that time almost surfaced and once again Dany desperately tried to hide away those times. "But you have one advantage that I did not." Daenerys was puzzled by this. What could she possibly have that Elyssa did not? Detecting the thought of question Elyssa gave her answer. "Me." She smirked at Dany's discomfort and jesting at her expense. To this Dany simply pouted in annoyance before giggling quietly at the silliness of their circumstance. Moments more passed before a thought came into her mind.

"Pardon me," she spoke hesitantly at first, "but are you familiar with any songs of my people?" Elyssa cocked an eyebrow in response to her question. "That is," Daenerys tried again as she straightened slightly, inching closer in the process, "if you are familiar with any from your travels." Elyssa grinned in noticing this unconscious movement and became curious as to where this would lead.

"Only one." She replied simply. "Something I recall only from a dream, sung to me by a woman who's face I cannot picture." Dany's curiosity was piqued with the mentioning of this unknown woman of Elyssa's past. But instead chose the here and now, believing that progress was being made between them.

"If you please," Dany now scooted in the crook of Elyssa's left arm as close to her body as possible. "I would like to hear it." Elyssa looked down at the vulnerability of this young girl next to her. She sighed once more before inhaling the warm nightly air. She hummed a somber and gentle melody before the words poured forth from her.

(Valyrian translation)

 _Flight of dragons soar in the purple light_

 _In the sky or in my mind_

 _Flight of dragons sail past reality_

 _Leave illusion behind_

 _Is it the past I see_

 _When I look up to the heavens_

 _Believing in the magic_

 _That I know could never be_

 _I want to go where they are going_

 _Into the world they've been_

 _Can I open up my mind enough to see_

 _Flight of dragons, heavenly argosies_

 _Catch the wind, rise out of sight_

 _Flight of dragons, pilots of fantasy_

 _In the sky or in my mind_

Somewhere between verses Daenerys leaned into the embrace of her harsh protector; drifting into a dream filled sleep filled with freedom and flying. The inner child of her mind soaring on leathery wings high amongst the heavens above. Elyssa, as she sang, was running her fingertips through Dany's hair much like what a mother does for her child. She herself dreamed of the woman with raven hair and starry indigo eyes. Perhaps one day she will meet this woman who's image burns within the depths of her mind. But for now, the two simply nestled into each other, dreaming of better things than whatever might await them.

Yet as these two were enjoying their closeness a figure watched from the shadows _**seething**_.

 **Author's Note:** _Happy Thanksgiving and merry holidays to you my FanFiction readers and supporters. This chapter was one of a handful that has been on my mind for quite some time. The combination song with Game of Thrones should have been included. What better way to remember old Valyria before it's doom then with Don McLean's 'Flight of Dragons'. Who better to play it than Sansa and Domeric in my opinion. Essentially what does this mean for our characters? Wait and see dear readers._

 _Special shout out to specter4hire's version of Domeric Bolton who inspired me to briefly include the description of the harp of his story Our Blades Are Sharp; which I recommend reading by the by. And special tribute to Don McLean for the title song. It's been many years since I saw the animated movie put out by Warner Bros. and I still remember every scene of it._

 _As always, I strive not to offend, insult, or in anyway shape or form pass off the work of others as my own. This is a hobby that has given me an outlet to express ideas of_ _ **what if**_ _stories. Thank you, FanFiction._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	9. Chapter 8: The Things We Do

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin_ _._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones VIII-**

The wedding ceremony had lasted for most of the day. Having it take place by the sea, whether by accident or design, gave the overall feel of something majestic and powerful. It allowed for all the elements to take part within different aspects. The strong gentle breeze blowing through the crowded area, the roaring crackled flames of the many fire pits and torches, the sounds of the sea in the background rising every now and then crashing like thunder against the rocky cliffs; the dust of the earth slowly rising of the ground with the many movements of the Dothraki females and female slaves dancing like they're lost within a trance to the drumming rhythms.

Daenerys looks about the many scenes playing about her as she sits upon the raised dais with her new husband Khal Drogo. She was told by the merchant magister Illyrio and the 'outrider' Elyssa to be ready to experience new sights and smells at this ceremony but seeing the reality of it all threatens to overwhelm her senses. Spiced meats of all kinds served with exotic fruits, lavish gifts from visitors and those from within the Khalassar. The most unexpected, leastwise for her, was the taking of some of the female dancers there and in front of those gathered. One such rutting resulted in a fight between to riders over the same female of which one was disemboweled, and his braid removed as a trophy. Khal Drogo observed this with barely contained sadistic pleasure but only nodding in approved respect to the winner of the fight.

To the side of the platform Daenerys saw the magister explain a piqued curiosity to her brother Viserys, who beforehand showed signs of displeased boredom. Having had his curiosity answered gave him some manner of satisfaction as a smile graced his previously frowning features. Near them, but closer to Daenerys, Elyssa stood silent and entertained at the ceremonies overall display. Every now and again she noticed Elyssa staring at her briefly like some sort of mother hen. Dany would force herself for Elyssa's sake to smile a little. That is until a gift of a clutch of snakes was presented before the wedded couple making Dany a little uneasy. A strange man draped in dark forest green leathers and matching cloak next stepped forward to the platform with a gift to present.

" **Jorah the Andal**." Drogo's voice and tone were gruff in acknowledging the stranger before them. An acknowledgement Dany noted filled with reluctant respect. A curious thing indeed to capture her attention. But what truly surprised her was hearing for the first time since she first saw him her husband's voice. It was deep and soothing, like an unyielding mountain fire nestling beneath the earth awaiting to be unleashed.

" **Many blessings and respects upon the great Khal and his new bride**." The strange man referred as Jorah bowed deeply and respectfully awaiting a sign to advance and present his gift. Both nodded at his words silently giving their permission. "A small collection of songs, stories, and histories of Westeros for the bride." He spoke in the common tongue whilst holding out towards Dany three books of various sizes for her to take. She accepted them graciously, but her eyes grew wide and alight that someone else besides her and her brother came from the lands of their birth.

"Are you from my homeland good ser?" She asked looking up slightly to the tall and well-built individual before her.

"I am indeed." He replied with a small shake of his head. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island." At mentioning his name and home he stood taller and straighter. Like an imposing bear of his homeland's namesake. This brought a shy chuckle of laughter from her throat that caught her new husbands' attention to the sound. And what all, save one, did not notice was that a tiny smirk appeared less than a moment upon the Khal's stone like features having heard; in his mind, the laughter of a female goddess.

"A long way from your home fellow countryman." Viserys overheard our small talks and leaned in to know anything else about him.

"I served loyally under your father." Jorah spoke, turning his head to look upon Dany's brother. "I shall serve loyally to you; the rightful king." Daenerys frowned a little at this comment. Having not known much or very little about Westeros and its way of life the idea of her brother being of more significance than her was bothersome; but today she became a Khal's wife. And she did not wish to dishonor Elyssa's efforts in making a mistake now.

"And how might I ask you came to be here?" She spoke a little excitedly with interest at Ser Jorah's past exploits.

"I escaped with my life and became a sellsword." He evenly and with great respect towards her, thus earning a look of approval from two nearby individuals; both of importance in Daenerys's life. "I fought for and against many an enemy."

"With whom did you fight with and against whom did you fight?" Dany asked as she adjusted her posture somewhat in her seat. She stared expectantly at Ser Jorah with insistence.

"I fought with the Legion for a time—" He began only to be interrupted by a great collection of bile being spat upon the earth by almost every warrior in attendance. The Khal himself and Elyssa showing great displeasured disgust on their respective features yet given the importance of the ceremony chose not to sully themselves in behaving in such a manner. Dany looked about in apparent confusion fearing that she may have made an error of some kind. The magister was quick to inform the opposite.

"Worry not my dear," she said with calming assurance, "this stem more from the bloody history that the Dothraki people have shared with the mercenary soldiers who fight under the banner of Braavos." She nodded a little in brief understanding. She sensed that many wrongs were thrusted upon both sides and over many years.

" **Dishonorable bitches who fight like wild beasts**. **Many a brave rider of the people has lied dead at the feet of those unblessed whore-sons**. **I would cut out the entrails of their unclean bodies and feast it all to them before burning out their eyes with heated coins and leaving them for the insects of the world to devour them slowly**." It seemed one of the younger warriors was very outspoken in his emotional view. Giving a sort of vehement dance of emphasis on each word or syllable, addressing all those gathered with his intensity as he spoke. The others were building in their chants and shouts even as he reached the end of his aggressive speech. " **To allow this outsider** ," he was now pointing at Daenerys angrily, " **into the Khalassar is to allow us to be whored out to foreigners and spit on the ways of the ancestors**." The music ceased; the dancing stopped, and no one present gave out another cry of support. To openly challenge an already made decision on the day of its consecration was to invite a far worse fate than what might lie in store. But it did not deter the young warrior at all as he carried on with greater energy and insults.

The Khal himself rose to his feet anger on his face. Ser Jorah stood off to the side near Viserys and Illyrio. Daenerys slowly began to feel alone in this tense unknown. Dany looked to find Elyssa suddenly next to her. She leaned in to whisper what was spoken that caused such an uproar. To say what thoughts or emotions were running thru Dany's mind would take more than what spoken language could begin to describe. Yet with her body trembling in fear she rose shakily from her seat. Her husband, Elyssa, and everyone else gathered focusing on her and waiting with bated breath as to what she might say or do.

Slowly she made her way down from the dais, sounds of the elements, birds above, her own breath and heart beating within the only sounds she knew. To those present she moved with poise and purpose. In Daenerys's mind the only purpose she was aware of was making it to her intended target without falling from sheer fright and panic. But made it she did to stand within arms reach of the young warrior who was at least a head taller than herself. They stared into each other's eyes. For her part to see for what reason he would make such claims. In his eyes she saw only hatred and grief, were he anyone else she would have nothing but pity for him. As it stood, she now had a duty to see through much as it pained her to do it.

"Elyssa." Her voice was almost deathly quiet but easily heard amongst the silence of their surroundings. Elyssa was quick to obey her new Khalessi's summons.

"Yes Khalessi." Elyssa responded with her arms tense but ready at her sides as she stood behind and to the right of Dany.

"Tell him exactly what I speak. No hidden meanings, no ceremonious misunderstandings." Her voice was shaky at first but with a building surge of energy she became much steadier with confidence.

"What is it you wish me to say Khalessi?" Elyssa asked relaxing and curious as to how Dany would deal with this hot-blooded fool.

"I find you without honor." Dany said this with an eerie like calm as Elyssa began translating every word Dany spoke. "You are not addressing any foreigner but a Khalessi of a great Khalassar led by my husband Khal Drogo." The Khal himself stood tall and imposing at this mention with pride filling within him. "Before me I see nothing but a scared child screaming like a little girl who has lost her favorite pet. Instead of standing up and forward with a real challenge, as you should have done, you must result to weak insults that merely pass by like wind passing the long grass; such as they are." As this carried on a feeling of unease was slowly building amongst the gathering. "I tell you now that if I had a cock this is where I would have you suck on it till the breath of your life vanished from your eyes and your body dance like a child's plaything. And if you had truly wished to challenge then you must have an arakh in your hand. If not, then hold your tongue or I'll cut it out myself." When she finished Elyssa could not contain the smirk on her face at having given the word of _her_ Khalessi _._

The young warrior now played host to a myriad mix of emotions with anger predominant among them. He looked about for any signs of support with none to be had. The Khal showed no signs of movement save a growing smirk of approval at how this was playing out. The warrior seemed to be wrestling with hesitation. Then out of nowhere Daenerys was smiling. She knew not why but it seemed to come natural to her for this moment. Going along with it the foolish youngling smirked then outright laughed. He opened his mouth to speak his response to this insolent foreign bitch, his arm reaching out to no one for a blade to make his choice clear.

No one knew of the knife. Not one person there expected it. When all was finished Daenerys stood above the fallen warrior, his throat torn open and bare, with his eyes wide in shock. Blood covered her hands and arms, her breaths were quick at first then became shaky and slow, her eyes felt bigger than her head can bear as she was trying to look upon every detail around her. Her body was beginning to feel heavy and her mind was empty of all conscious thought.

A rough gentle hand caressed the hand that held the knife. She shook suddenly, practically spinning in place to face the new challenge who grasped a shoulder to steady her. Soon enough her vision became clear as crystal water, her body slowly ceasing in it's continuous shakes. For there before her stood the mighty broad form of her husband; Drogo, son of Barbaro. His face conveyed in its own way a small form of comfort to her. And yet to the outside world it would be construed as a man merely fulfilling his duties and nothing more. None present would know truly what he did within that gesture of comfort.

Sounds of movement were made nearby drawing attention of the gathered crowd save Daenerys who stared into the eyes of Drogo. With his thumb and forefinger gently upon her chin he motioned to her what he wished her to see. There amidst the center of the gathering for her to see was a pure white mare of a shining silver color mane of hair. Her mind could not seem to grasp what exactly stood before her so slow it was. Having apparently gone from killing someone by her hand, then witnessing a marvelous creature that by all rights should be free to run the vast seas of grass in the wilds. She was moving closer to this beautiful creature yet unaware of such action till a bloodstained hand made to touch her. Dany halted the movement of her hand and shifted her gaze upon the bloody remnants on her person. Shock was threatening to consume her again till a voice spoke.

" **A** _ **Khal's**_ **gift to his** _ **wife**_. **And before the Great Stallion above** , **the people around us and the mother of the earth that bears us** ;"he motioned with a free hand towards the mare, " **this** **is** _ **my**_ **gift to you**." And without another word he moved with strength and purpose towards his own stallion mount. Daenerys was lost for words for her emotions were consuming her far faster than what her mind could comprehend at this moment. Once again, a pair of strong hands touched upon her skin, hoisting her on the mare's back with ease. Unlike with Drogo this touch was more familiar. As Elyssa handed her the reigns and made to step away Dany was quick to snatch her wrist.

"Please." Was all that Dany felt truly capable of; especially with all that took place. Elyssa for her own part looked worriedly distressed and tried to break away.

"I cannot Khalessi." She said in a low voice. "It is not allowed." Dany's resolve was breaking, so on the cusp of tears she was that she tried once more.

"Please." Elyssa sighed heavily before bowing her head, her eyes closing in contemplation. She did not think for very long before throwing herself up behind Dany. With a shrieking yell powerful enough to curdle the blood and bones of even the most hardened of warriors she urged the mare though the crowd at a gallop. Many of the people moving quickly to jump out of the way as the two women rode off in the Khal's direction. Behind them the sounds of celebration were once again made but with more vigorous energy. Ahead of them the closing silhouette of the great Khal himself sparing a brief look back for his wife and who she has chosen. Even over the wind of their ride and the pounding of horse hooves Daenerys shed one single tear for what Elyssa muttered softly in her ear.

"The things I do for love."

 **Winterfell, Weirwood Forest Garden**

The winds blew decently strong among the trees. The sounds of various birds singing their songs filled the air around the pooled clearing. A dense heavy feeling was slowly emanating from the pooled water in this part of the glade. Far from suspecting eyes, and the awareness of the faced heart tree in the center of the wood, Russ sighed deeply. A heavy feeling of a different nature was currently occupying the core of his being as well as his thoughts. The scent of raven hair tickling his nostrils combined with the smells of sweat, love, and wilderness pine gave him an ultimate feeling of contentment. His chest rose and fell steadily in slow paces despite the continuous upbeats of his heart growing at the shared closeness. His gaze stared at the distant sky above, beyond the canopy of the dense foliage presiding over his form. The rough gentle caress of arms and furs engulfed his body as he laid there in nature's element; nature's embrace.

He slowly lowered his sight to the beautiful creature that laid with him. The sharpness of her body's muscles contrasting nicely with the exquisiteness of her womanly curves. The fingers of her left hand subconsciously fiddling with his unraveled hair that draped over his shoulder onto his chest. Her breath also rising in time with Russ's own. The fabric of furs haphazardly draped over them both gave them a sort of first men appearance that brought a soft chuckle from Russ's throat. This in turn brought his half-asleep companion to slight awareness.

"What seems so funny?" She asked whilst still twiddling with strands of hair.

"Just," he breathed to start, "imagining what it is that we resemble." A smile grew on Russ's face to show his amusement. She huffed and chuckled to play along.

"And what pray tell do we resemble my lord?" She shifted her body to look upwards at his still smiling face. He closed his eyes in mockery, as if he were contemplating deeply on the matter. But even though he still bore a jovial look and manner the tone of his voice revealed a hidden seriousness.

"Strength," he reached with his right hand to her left, "and Grace." Their fingers gingerly danced with each other before interlocking in unity.

"Our words perhaps?" She spoke with a little bit of hope fluttering within her voice.

"If only," he sighed heavily with disappointment with herself following likewise. "The words of our respective houses already define certain things about us." He glanced down to her once more. "What other words could be used that haven't been thought or spoken?" Still holding his hand, she squeezed her response before giving it voice.

"Tis true that many have been thought, spoken, or even whispered about us in differing ways, but they don't represent us." She brought the back of his hand to her lips. She lightly grazed against his skin with each gentle kiss savoring the feeling between them.

"Have you spoken to your family?" It was a thought that was straying in his mind yet certainly needed to be addressed. He knew that for this to carry on a few certain individuals needed to be involved. She tensed; her fingers almost coming undone from its caressing grip.

"They are supportive of us." There was no mistaking it. Her speech alone was so matter-of-fact that to dispute was like trying to convince the bear not to hibernate for winter. But Russ was at times like an iron mountain personified; immovable and just as stubborn.

"What is it?" He urged with a comforting nudge. She ceased her movements for naught, but a few moments then made to sit, hugging the furs to her chest for strength.

"They told me in so many different words that whatever happens we are family already." Her body was shivering not from the slight chills of their environment, but from something else. Something she was deeply troubled by. "Yet what worries them most is not what others might say." She paused to take breath within her lings. "What worries them is that any offspring born between us would suffer the same fate as you and yours, to be scattered by the winds. To never return to the ones that bore him to the world" A sniff was heard by all present. While he could not see her cry, he had known her long enough to tell the little hints and cues that she used. He sat up to hold her from behind with the furs that covered him falling to expose all his glory unto the world. As he held her; gentle as he could, he slowly trailed light kisses from shoulder to the base of her neck.

"The only way that will ever happen is if they kill me first. And you know well enough that; better than anyone. They would then know what it meant to challenge the mountain and bring forth it's wrath." After he whispered the words into her ear, she gave a lightheartedly soft laugh. She knew that if he meant it, he would invoke the call for his family. That and the fact that Gregor 'the mountain' Clegane has never faced a true son of the mountains like Russ. She knew who would win that fight.

"But whilst the 'fat' Baratheon King sits the throne," she turned her head slightly to look over her shoulder at him, "you are forbidden to claim your inheritance of House; your siblings the same." Russ cared not for the ill opinions and beliefs of others and was not ashamed nor shy in expressing that viewpoint. She was quick to correct this disdain. "Your challenge of King Robert was made public. You were only saved by the strength and will of Lord Stark which allowed long enough the fortuitous intervention of Master Tyrion who was able to diffuse the situation." At this his face dropped and now it was his turn to look away. She would not stop now. She cupped his cheek with one of her palms to force his sight upon her.

" **My brave beloved warrior** ," the words of Old Norse gruff and hoarse emanating from her beautiful lips. " **You are not the last to others** , **but you are the last to me**. **I cannot bear to lose you**." The sadness in that last phrase humbled him. " **Nor can I lose you to yourself**." This caught Russ unexpectedly and knew that one day his immovable recklessness may cost more than what he possessed. He said nothing in kind. He merely stared at her for long moments before within this intimacy they leaned into each other, their foreheads coming together with eyes closed.

" **My beautiful warrior-mate**. **Whenever did you become so wise and strong**? **I feel more than fortunate to have you with me**." Russ was more than passionate in his response to this warrior goddess. Leaning in between words to press soft pecks to her lips and tasting the nectar that was her upon them. "Dacey…" She giggled like a little girl at his attempts of southron romance.

"The things we do for love Russ." With that a settled silence existed for a while more for the loving couple till something in the distance shattered it. They jerked away from each other, neither moving while thinking it some random occurrence. They looked to each other once more smiling till the second occurrence. Russ stood to his feet with his head twisting about for which direction it came. The smiles were gone now. She stood beside him expectant of explanation.

"What's wrong Russ—" It sounded again yet now this time it was joined by three others in mournful continuance. There were no doubts to be had this time. Russ and Dacey gathered themselves somewhat decently enough quickly and efficiently to run at full speed to the source of such painful woes. There at last before them, at the base of an unfinished tower being repaired, was a young form all broken and twisted. Formed around the youth in an improvised circle four direwolves howled in terrible grief to the skies above. Their mournful cries echoing perhaps for leagues on in great and powerful continuance.

 **Authors Note:** _For those keeping track I previously posted that I wouldn't post anything till after the new year. While this is true it is to be amended. I will post when I can. I will be in the process of moving the next two or three months to a new place. This does not include the holiday hours at work and with family. Ultimately this may be the only chapter this month._

 _Many apologies to my readers for having to suffer my frustrations for a time. I was in a funk and don't tolerate bashing when compounded with all the nonsense drama from work and family. Again, deepest apologies dear readers._

 _Many thanks from you my supporters and FanFiction writer Gracques for encouraging words of wisdom. A break in the story every now and again with interludes to briefly explain a few things. Also if anyone is capable, or knows someone who is, fan art based on the story thus far would be appreciated if donated; tis the season, eh?_

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	10. Interlude Chapter: An Umber's Words

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin_.

 **The North**

 **-Interlude I-**

 _The following is a brief history as told by House Umber. The telling and subject matter always changes depending whose version is presented and how much ale has been consumed. However, the ancients of the Giant tribes have longer memories._

…The Berserkers of House Umber have always exceled in flanking maneuvers, shattering charges, and general pursuit of routed enemies. A wise commander must take care not to allow them such free rein to find themselves overwhelmed. However, as veteran troops, Berserkers might indulge in bloodlust, but rarely find themselves consumed by it. Let their enemies taste the cold steel and fury that only true Northmen can bring.

Aye! Ye heard me correctly. The Umbers are true Northmen. Though you didn't hear it from me, but it was them Perturabo's that allowed us the honor. It goes all the way back to what we recall as the Great Gathering. Perhaps only two of great note that a Stark King called upon his lords and peoples for their say in things.

The first was to decide the final moment in dealing with the _wildlings_. Free folk; hah! They believed themselves free because they would not kneel before others because of birth, status, or religious creed. Maybe right, maybe wrong; what's done is done. And House Umber took and received a large share. So much that it's been claimed that we are unbound giants among men. Now northern people are hardy and tall by nature. But us Umbers are cut above the rest.

An example? Alright, the wielders of the great axe. Old? Old?! Ha! The Umber Greataxes combine mobility, defense, and fearsome weaponry experience that none can openly match. They will chase down heavier foes, stand firm against charges, and deliver a devastating assault with savage fury; the blades of their namesake rising and falling in waves of wonderful music. Only the strongest and most seasoned of our venerable warriors is capable in wielding these destructive weapons. Although skill is just as necessary as killing power. So, don't let appearances fool you youngling.

Where was I, ah; yes. So, in the end the first gathering made the wildlings our brothers once more. More like distant cousins, but family, nonetheless. And believe me there were many distrustful moments from both sides. Many of the Giant tribes split amongst the vast territories of the North and settled into a great growth of births. The herds of mammoths growing alongside provided us at Last Hearth much needed resources. Before anyone knew what was happening blood bonds were forged between the Black-Handed Giants of the North and House Umber of Last Hearth.

Oi! Get the fuck out of there! You want to get trampled to death by a mammoth bull? Well then don't fuck with the secret stash. Mammoth mead is powerful shit after all…

 _This champion would not survive the War of Kings sadly. But not before killing hundreds of his enemies. He was survived by his wife and children before the coming of the Wight's. While the words of an Umber must be taken as pure bravado, there is some measure of truth to their tales._


	11. Chapter 9: Truths and Observations

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones IX-**

People often wonder what it means to lose your sight. In the end there are just not enough words in any language that could ultimately do it justice. Arthur could recall a time when sight was simply taken for granted. Even after all the things he'd bore witness to. The suffering of those unfortunate without their awareness, although tragic and pitiful, he always thought to himself, _not to me_.

It seems like only yesterday he saw the rising of the sun over Starfall with his parents and sister. In the blink of an eye he became a knight who was deemed worthy enough to wield the famed sword Dawn; thus, he became the 'Sword of the Morning'. In another blink he was anointed into the Kings Guard, foreswearing hearth land and family to a lifetime of service. From then on, the blinks of time almost blur together in a series of faded fog within his mind's eye. Until at last the fatal incident at the Tower of Joy.

For his own part Arthur took a personal oath of silence. Never would he reveal what he bore witness to nor the tasks he himself carried out in those final hours. More than once he regretted several choices and prayed, to whatever gods that were listening, asking forgiveness. If only the world of men was much kinder. Once hailed as the greatest swordsman of the land, an honorable knight and respected member of the Kings Guard. Immediately after the loss of his sight he became nothing more than a broken blind beggar, free roaming across the lands of the many kingdoms seemingly lost and abandoned. Those who believed themselves important spun fanciful lies about why the Rebellion was started, who was its cause, the accomplices that took part, and the foul terrible deeds that were done on both sides.

To whatever end these lies served, their purpose was done. Anger, grief, and heartfelt sorrow occupied Arthur's mind in those early days. However long he traveled; weeks, months, in the end it was just one long blur. Somehow, he managed to get north above the Neck to the lands of the First Men. Even in the deep darkness that he had come to know there was a single solitary light that was far off into the distance. A yet unknown voice crying out to him saying _fear not, your journey has not ended_. He followed this voice till at last he was found half frozen and on the verge of madness before the household doors of Silver Peak.

Arthur shook his head gently, seeking to focus on the here and now instead of recalling the memories of days long since passed.

He twisted his neck slowly from side to side trying to take in the surroundings as best he could. It was the early hours of morning, people of different stations, livelihoods and skills going this way and that about the castle courtyard ensuring it ran smoothly and safely like a piece of well-maintained engineering. Yet despite the sounds of the obvious it was what lied underneath that seemed to catch his attention.

… _poor lad may not live for long_ …

… _even if he lives; a cripple he will be_ …

… _his lady mother refuses to leave_ …

… _silent as the grave his family is_ …

… _surely his lordship cannot leave his son_ …

 _ **SMACK**_! This sound now drew Arthur's interest. As intriguing as the whispered smallfolk gossip was this all-consuming sound of flesh hitting flesh found Arthur walking away from the timber post he was leaning against in search of this newfound curiosity. As he drew nearer to the source the ends of an argument could be heard.

" **GO**! Tell her. But first you go to Lord and Lady Stark. There you will **fall** to your knees offering your services **and** deepest sympathies. And telling them **your thoughts and prayers** are with them; do you understand?" The older voice was commanding yet full of patronizing sarcasm as if speaking to an idiotic child.

"You can't—" The child in question it seemed had something to say on that matter but another slap of flesh hitting flesh put a stop to that.

" _ **Do you understand**_?" Once again, the older voice asked deliberately slow, emphasizing each word to help get his point across. Sounds of hesitant feet shuffling soon followed by hurried footsteps told clear enough what decision was made.

"The prince will remember that _little_ lord." A gruff somewhat raspy voice spoke next to the older voice. A slight inflection of tone implying a not so subtle attempt at insult.

"I certainly hope so." The little lord replied. "If he does forget be a good dog and remind him won't you." Sounds of short determined strides gave the impression that was the end of the matter. A shift or two in the strides indicated a notice of something and/or someone or even hesitance in his steps.

"Ah, Ser Arthur." The voice said in a cheery tone, as if the owner did not just give a serious dressing down to someone; the crown prince it seems of all people.

"Greetings unto you Master Tyrion." Arthur gave the slightest of nods; downside of being sightless. Unless trained or completely focused on the task at hand it was possible to lose one's balance. Having been this way for some time has forced Arthur to train his memory and mind in various ways. It took a moment or two prior to his greeting but a name came to the voice readily enough. "Are you well this morning?" He inquired toward the 'littlest' Lannister.

"Quite sore I am afraid." He groaned out his response through clenched teeth. "It sometimes saddens me to know that my fighting days are nearing their end." He grunted out his last; possibly from stretching unused muscles and bones. But just as quick he carried on. "Have you broken your fast yet?" Arthur sensed something devious within the question asked, but merely dismissed it as simple light-hearted mischief.

"Not completely." Arthur gave a shrug in addition to his reply. Being a member of a once prestigious order such as the Night's Watch forced him to adapt to a sort of 'make do' style of living. And it was challenging at first, especially for Arthur during his time of adjustment when names and faces could no longer be supplied in the same manner of original thoughts.

"Then I shall seek to remedy that." He began to make way to his destination, raising his voice to call over his shoulder. "Come; join me if you please." Although polite the tone was _very_ commanding. Tyrion Lannister was no doubt used to giving orders to get what he wanted. Still Arthur was not interested and politely chose to decline.

"Master Tyr—" He never got to start let alone finish.

"I insist good Ser. A man of your quality and reputation deserves nothing than the very best that Stark hospitality can muster." He quietly mulled over the different prospects of his choices. As the sounds of Tyrion's boots had already begun to recede in the distance Arthur could not help but think to himself that there was more to this person than rumor or story had first given belief.

"Lannisters." Mumbled Arthur as he was resigned to the fate of not being able to say no. He followed as close as was able to keep up with his light-footed acquaintance. When he had made it to within reach of the hall's threshold, he heard softly voiced musings at the back of the room, no doubt where the high table sat, and a louder voice placing his request with a passing servant or two.

"Two plates of fried 'little' fishes with toasted sliced bread black bacon and mugs of northern brown beer to wash it all down." A contented sigh followed this. Tyrion had at last reached his spot for morning fast; nearby those he was perhaps familiar with. With a slight sniff of his nose Arthur detected a female fragrance nearest to him; a servant possibly wondering if he needed something.

"A glass of spiced lemon water for starters please." He made his request decently polite enough and stepped forth into the hall. He sharply paused in mid step however as the parting female presence quickly disappeared, as if it was never there. It strangely enough reminded him of someone, who also smelt of freshly snowed mountain pine. It was an extremely subtle scent; like a mark from your surrounding environment that told the story of where you came from. A shake of his head and soon enough he perished the thought from his mind. The smells of preceding nights of festivities and all they entailed lingered still within the hall and thus invaded his nose. Arthur had to swallow away the bile that was slowly making these scents very well known. Yet beneath the vileness a somewhat subdued sense wafted through the haze of other smells and prompted Arthur to; quite literally, follow his nose to the source of such sweet aromas.

"Morning my dear family. I have brought a guest, Ser Arthur Dayne; 'Sword of the Morning', former knight of the Kings Guard and now a blades master of the Nights Watch." Tones of embellishment and flourish were blatantly evident in Tyrion's introduction. Giggles of childlike laughter escaped from the youngest prince and princess. Steadying himself Arthur bowed courteously from the waist towards the royal family.

"Seven blessings upon you this morning Ser Arthur." The excited nervousness of the princess' voice gave away the exuberance of her youth in awe and admiration. From the constant subtle shifting sounds her brother, while not vocal of it, was just as excited. After all it was not everyday you saw a living legend such as himself. Though somewhat long out of practice the old courtesies came back slowly as if they were natural once again.

"Just Arthur please," a chair was shuffled as someone seated themselves, "I am no longer the knight I once was." Arthur remained as he was. Having neither been invited or ordered he remained standing roughly a few feet from the royal family.

"Besides from the obvious color?" The tone of sarcasm was familiar. A tone that only one individual could pass off as polite conversation. "I was not aware you lost your status that so separated you from the rest of us." Jaime Lannister; familiar scents hung around his perceived presence that Arthur would have almost recognized anywhere. Sweat, weapon and leather polish, manure of a Westerland charger, and the detected hint of something…else. In all frankness if arrogance were a scented oil, then Jaime Lannister not only wore it well but seemed to personify it in voice and temperament consistently. Arthur knew him well; _once_.

"When I took the oath of the black all other oaths and duties became forsworn and void." His speech practically sounded as if spoken by someone else. It was even, calm, and very void of warmth. Time stationed at the Wall has ways of changing a person. Still, nothing would deter a lion of Casterly Rock from his chosen course.

"As I recall you were the best of us in your ' _duties_ '." An in-between pause mixed with sips of liquid. "Practically everyone referred to you as the perfect knight; almost without _equal_." That last seemed to hang heavy with its implications. Jaime was trying to get something out of him as always, except this time Arthur detected no camaraderie, no sense of shared feelings and experiences. The Rebellion had carved a great division between them. Truthfully however none but Jaime, Arthur, and Barristan knew what happened in those times. Times that tried more than just their souls.

"Peace;" the thankful interruption of Tyrion Lannister allowed for perhaps a temporary reprieve, "surely whatever sins he committed now rest in the hands of the gods?" And no sooner than that moment was his fast brought to him by precise, yet hurried, steps of a couple of maid servants. Considering the slight air about them they were 'maid' in name only; pity. "Come Ser Arthur," a movement of his hand to no doubt catch Arthur's attention, "join us please." Arthur to his credit simply nodded in Tyrion's perceived general direction before ascending the few steps towards the table. The young prince patted his hand nearest to his person, a double indication to Arthur that he was invited to sit beside him and; due to an otherwise obvious handicap, was provided a general sense of where.

Arthur, as courtesy demands, gave recognition towards those gathered and the Queen especially before seating himself and breaking his own fast. He was caught briefly unawares by the sudden arrival of his choice of drink. It was as if it just appeared out of nowhere. Given Arthur's prior and somewhat recent acquisition of abilities it worried him to say the least how it came about. The Queen's words of conversation brought his attention back to the here and now.

"I'm surprised." She stated as a matter of fact. To whom Arthur was curious of, himself or someone else.

"Oh?" Tyrion inquired himself, in-between mouthfuls of food of course. A slight shift of his body's posture a possible sign of curiosity to his royal sibling's inquiry.

"I was not aware you had obtained religious beliefs." A slow swishing sound of liquid combined with the scent of Arbor red wine. "I once recalled you more _adventurous_ when we were young. **Father** , more than once, had to find creative ways to confine you to one location; the family study as I recall."

"On the contrary," Tyrion spoke between obvious mouthfuls; which the young prince and princess found entertaining, "during my long travels abroad I have acquired not religion per se; but faith." A shift of his body's posture assumed a different stance as he addressed his royal sibling.

"Are they not one and the same uncle?" Inquired the young prince.

"Ah young ones it is not so." Tyrion began, his voice taking the role of a lecturing master. "Faith is to have complete trust or confidence in someone, or something based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof." The shift in tone at the end was no doubt directed at his sibling's. Whatever was going on between them was worth paying attention to, yet Arthur remained reluctant to draw himself into the fire completely.

"The Faith of the Seven uncle—"

"Is nothing more than a man-made creation of a particular type of faith in pursuit or interest to which a controlling power ascribes supreme importance." Tyrion corrected to his young niece. She hummed softly to herself, deep in thought Arthur had to guess as any other opinion would be insensible.

"Blades master," Jaime's voice queried in sarcasm, "I am not familiar with such a title." He chuckled to himself lightly, as is a personal jest of some sort was being observed. "Then again much of the North and the Watch, in particular, do not seem familiar to me these days." Arthur needn't have sight to know Jaime bore a smirk of some kind upon his face. It reminded him too well of another who always smiled or smirked; even as Arthur had laid him low.

"It is no title." His own voice low-like and crisp though gritted teeth. "Not in the traditional sense." He turned his head ever so slightly to give the impression he looked directly upon the male Lannister twin. "And pray tell what you would be more familiar with I wonder?" A shifting silence gave credence to Arthur's suspicion's, but the feeling of a small victory was gratifying, and Arthur could resist no more in taking a stab at Jaime.

"The North and its originality." Tyrion spoke jovially, lightening the mood for the children's sake.

"More original than some I wager." The Queen responded. Her intent nothing more to aid her pride of lions. A soft huff of breath escaping her lips instead of a chuckle or laugh.

"I have some news to share little ones." Tyrion spoke ignoring the previous comment of his royal sister.

"Is it of Bran Uncle Tyrion?" asked Tommen curiously.

"He won't die; will he?" Myrcela asked fearfully, anxious that the answer might be dire. Tyrion let every person settle in uncomfortable silence before breaking the suspense.

"No." He finally spoke between mouthfuls. "He will live thank the gods, although his condition means he may never walk again." A pained yet gladdened sigh of relief passed Myrcela's lips. "Maester Luwin is uncertain if he will awake from his dreams however." Arthur bowed his head. He knew that should he awake he would never be the same boy again. Some had different notions on the subject though.

"Seems cruel to leave a youngling to such a fate." The Queen observed.

"Only the gods can determine what that may be your Grace." Arthur offered, which might have placated things.

"If the gods were merciful it would've been quick." Jaime once again remarked, but this time there was a sincerity to his tone. "Give me a clean painless death any day."

"Nobly spoken." Arthur agreed solemnly. Many faces decided to appear in his minds eye at that moment.

"And besides," Tyrion carried on as Arthur shook himself to clear away dark thoughts, "death is so final. Whereas life is still full of possibilities."

"Is it still your intention to travel to the wall, to take the black?" Arthur remembered a previously sent missive to Castle Black informing them of Tyrion's impending visit.

"Yes, my dear siblings, nephew and niece. I shall travel to one of the last engineering marvels of ancient times, standing upon the edge of the world and piss till my cock freezes off. If ever that happens the whores across the known world would wail in lamentation at such a great and terrible loss. Never let it be said that I willingly went celibate; save for that one time." The children were giggling like mad at this grandiose speech. Arthur himself found such a notion amusing but remained silent on the matter.

"The children need not hear your filth." The Queen was most unamused. Wood of furniture scraped and groaned as the Queen rose from her seated place. "Come my sweets." As she beckoned them away, so too did they respond in kind with smaller sounds of scrapes and groans. Before leaving they offered sincere farewells to the three men, Arthur inclined his head raising his untouched glass in salute.

"It has been too long brother." Jaime tried to whisper unto his sibling. "I cannot tell at times if you are serious."

"It's not important for anyone else to know." He hummed a light laugh to himself. "It's only important enough for **me** to know." Arthur sensed, more than anything else, a sort of tension between them. And yet again Arthur said nothing.

"Dear brother," Jaime began but paused to gather his thoughts. "I wonder sometimes whose side you're on with the _company_ you keep." This was no doubt to imply something conspired on Tyrion's part, but in whose company was it conceived?

"My dear brother, you wound me greatly." On the surface Tyrion sounded sincere enough. Arthur was no fool and if he suspected as much then neither was Jaime. "You know of course how much I _**love**_ my _**family**_." And there it was. That sort of tone used when gained from traveling abroad the known world. Still Arthur chose to say nothing. Time alone would reveal if he would become involved once more in the feuds of others. While still capable and worthy of wielding Dawn, Arthur relinquished such an honor for one who might yet prove to be better than him. Perhaps through Tyrion he might yet find him.

 **Winter Town, Dancing School of Syrio Forel**

The sounds of wooden training swords whacking against each other filled the vast training hall of Braavosi sword master Syrio Forel, who was at one time the First Sword to the Sea Lord of Braavos for several years. While others simply think this feat of insignificance then they know not what is considered. To be First Sword to the Sealord is like being his right hand and closest confidante in all matters. Many the brave and foolhardy have fallen to Syrio's blade skills. Many great and powerful foes have challenged the authority of the Sealord, only to be struck down swiftly and gracefully. But all Syrio's achievements and mistakes are now behind him. He has reached an age, while physically capable and strong minded, others question his skills and talents with the blade. Fools they were and in some ways still are.

The Sealord himself approached Syrio, with the offer from the Stark Lord of Winterfell, to teach the younglings of his home and his lands the ways of the 'Water Dance'. Such an offer is not to be mistaken as the first and only offer of its kind. Many other masters of various studies were approached to teach what they have learned with their First Men allies. The subject of mentoring others with knowledge was a long and arduous path in of itself. The maesters council of the Citadel were firm in their ways that only those capable of higher learning should be taught. The free guild collectives of Braavos thought otherwise. It was their fervent truth that all shall not be denied. Freedom and the right to choose were the driving principles.

In the end an uneasy compromise was agreed between both parties to ensure that future generations would benefit from the teachings of those that came before. Syrio was at first angered by such a proposition. For to teach was saying that the swordsman yield without a fight. At least that is until he met the Stark sisters.

In the beginning they were complete opposites of the other. The eldest displayed the air of a perfect lady; calm, elegant, graceful, and courteous. The younger had a wildness that seemed infectiously spirited. Her boundless energy tempered only by her inquisitive adaptiveness. The elder constantly protested the futile exercise to learning the blade. Such complaints were followed by angry rebukes of chastisement that only those willing were capable. On and on such displays were carried out, but Syrio waited patiently for an opportunity to instill his first lesson. It was several weeks before the moment presented itself. During that time period Syrio observed them closely and silently, watching how they interact with others and themselves; their physical habits and movements were just as important to discern what made them uniquely different from the rest.

" _These garments are quite unladylike. Must we wear these brutish things for this silliness?" The red haired eldest exasperated between subtle shifts of her clothing._

 _"This would be more fun without her." The dark haired younger angrily quipped._

 _"Enough." This was why Syrio did not have girls of his own to deal with; gods be praised. "I did not travel far from the warmth of my great and fair city to train whiny little pups." Both appeared incensed by this. "I am here to teach the ways of the sword to wolves. Is this not so?"_

 _"But this is so unfair." Moaned the elder._

 _"Ah, yes. More with the whines." The younger was enjoying these comments but Syrio remained silent to her chortling._

 _"So, what will I be learning?" The eagerness of the young one was infectious, but troublesome in its own way._

 _"_ _ **Both**_ _of you will follow me." With that Syrio turned and presumably lead them to a customized training hall deep within the earth. Oil lamps lit up much of the hall whilst outside light illumined a moderately cascading waterfall. Off to the side was a device that steadily dripped water in droplets. When he reached said device, he turned abruptly to find both with similar looks of incredulousness. If he was not teaching right now Syrio might have had a good laugh about this._

 _"Now I know this is utterly ridiculous." The elder stated as he indicated behind him._

 _"For one who prides herself on pretty words and pleasantries," he observed to the elder, "you cease to remain silent long enough to learn something new." The elder simply huffed and looked away, but the small furrows of her face gave away the shame that was her mistake. Which became angry as the younger now laughed outright at her eldest's faults._

 _"And you little one should always remember that family, for all their faults, is family." The incensed tone Syrio gave was the only indication that his face did not reveal; emotion. "Be grateful every day for that blessing," he shifted to stand in front of her, "for one day they will vanish," a snap of his fingers in front of her face jolting her attention, "like so." He stepped toward the elder with his eyes cat like and observant. "And what would you be willing to give to have it again?" Neither said a word to this question yet both were aware of what might be given for someone they cared about most._

 _"But how is this to help us?" The elder now asked in humble curiosity. For a flashing moment there was a twinkle of light in Syrio's eyes._

 _"The greatest sword," he turned his back to them and positioned for a demonstration, "is not the strongest that hacks or slashes. It is speed!" And quicker than a mortal eye could catch his hand seemed to flash in between the droplets. "Speed of hand," his hands lashed out repeatedly for maybe a few seconds before twisting sharply with a finger pointing straight at the younger's forehead, "speed of mind." Syrio strode away from them back to above ground to recruit others worthy enough to learn. The silence that remained behind him meant if nothing else, then he had their attention at least. "Perhaps when you have mastered this, I will teach you." As he continued his stride the sounds of water droplets hitting flesh constantly brought a cat like smile to his face._

It has been some years since that first interaction and these young blades have now become his best students. They in turn assist in training those of lesser skill alongside their dancing master. The style of their blades matching their growing and ever-changing personalities. Where they were once hostile to one another they have since at least become understanding. And yet something about their movements today seems, different to say the least. Almost as if their grace and fluidity becoming more and more detached; feral.

WHACK!

And there it is again. A slow strike parried into a downward thrust that spins to a sloppy form of the serpent strike. Syrio slowly began to shake his head in disapproval, for he was aware of what transpired to their sibling brother; and yet his intentions of tempering their grief seem to be working in reverse. Where Sansa always seemed to shift and glide with every subtle step; constantly hiding her intentions from her opponent, now became too obvious and simple. So much in fact that even an untrained newborn could defeat her in a duel to the death. Arya was growling and shouting with every swing of her training blade. She grew louder and outright animalistic with every brutal slash, lashing this way and that to beat her eldest in this; what started out as, simple exercise. Once again Syrio chose to wait and observe knowing full well the possible outcomes to this situation.

 **Winterfell, Bran's Room**

She traveled softly and wistful-like. Despite her young adult years and giving birth to three golden haired children she remained youthful, lithe, beautiful. Truly she was still considered the epitome and envy of those who looked to her. Where she went men would turn their heads to catch looks and women would lower their heads in respect and shame. She is a lioness Queen.

It puzzled her though at first. Something was compelling her to head to the little Stark boy's chamber. She cared not for the child. He was not in any way shape or form her concern. Had he not seen that which was not for him to see he would not have been in this condition. Still a small part of her felt something for this young child. Curiosity now got the best of her and as was her observed courtesy she wished to pay respects.

She ascended the steps with practiced grace and poise. Years spent in learning of the noble lady, combined with her upbringing made her appear the epitome of what it was to be Queen. The door to the room lied partially open and within were the sounds of soft words. The words themselves of comfort to the Stark mother. Peering inside Cersei could observe the boy laid under layers of blanketed furs upon the bed, itself of which positioned in the center of the room along the far wall from the door. Seated at the foot of his bed were the Stark matriarch and perhaps her only rival; the Lady Peturabo.

It was a great surprise indeed to see her in the flesh once again since the Rebellion. The last time she had seen her was perhaps at the tourney at Harrenhal. She was an exquisite dancer, men from many regions and backgrounds had sought to seek her hand; either in dance or marriage. Potential suitors were intimidated or frightened away by her brother, the Sword of the Morning.

Years have passed and her beauty has not faded. Her and her brother's appearance at the welcoming feast were completely unexpected. As if lost in a dream the atmosphere of wonder they created was intoxicating and almost welcome. Cersei could not recall when she had ever felt like that last if ever.

Whispers and rumors speak of foul machinations conspiring deep within the lonely mountain of her and her northern husband's home. Dark rituals and sacrificial rites; fanciful stories and nothing more. But whatever they do they remain the most powerful of the northern houses. So much so that her father has sent numerous letters of various offers and treatise. In the end it served to prove one thing. Anything that goes in, never comes back out.

She stood there not so much to eaves drop or play false to what Lady Stark was experiencing. Afterall she had three beautifully golden-haired children of her own, she needn't concern herself with those of others. What rooted her to the spot she stood was ore so to observe and admire the young wolf cub. His features so soft and innocent, yet the harsh and hardness that lied beneath told a story of what he would one day become. A Stark warrior of excellent caliber and strength. His brief naked display of physique had Myrcella blushing and talking about it for a time afterwards. Truly; if the North were more cultured then perhaps the men would be more appealing to the eye than the knights of the south.

"Your Grace." Cersei was brought from her internal musings by the sudden address. "Forgive us we did not know you were there." Both ladies offered short curtseys and nods of respect to Cersei. She in turn repaid with a slight gesture. Despite the Lady Stark's current condition, she offered what she could. It was a strength that Cersei herself admired; to a certain extent.

"Peace, Lady Stark. I merely wished to pay my own respects." A small enough small in thanks from Lady Stark seemed all he was capable of. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hands constantly wringing together in motion, her long hair; normally Cersei supposed was done in a northern braid, now fell freely with certain stands disheveled or frayed.

"Lady Perturabo." Cersei turned and acknowledged the other noble lady to which she returned.

"Your Grace." Though dressed in the plain clothes of the North she still somehow managed to appear the Dornish woman she was born, with cut sleeves and low back and neck lines. As much as Cersei loathed it, Ashara Dayne was still more beautiful than her. But a Lannister would never show weakness. A lesson drilled into her since childhood and raised herself ever so slightly.

"It has been too long." She offered at first in small talk.

"It has indeed your Grace." Lady Perturabo replied, her smile somehow not matching her eyes. The Lady Stark seemed to not notice completely in between fidgets, her gaze almost never straying from her child.

"I was given to understand that those of the mountain kept to themselves." Cersei was intrigued to the presence of the Lady of the mountains and what her intentions might be.

"Yet we would be remiss if we did not appear every so often your Grace." Simple yet vague. Ashara is no stranger to the game after all.

"The previous night was almost extraordinary. I haven't danced to a song like since…" Cersei once again reminisced. The song was of old Valyria and was rarely sung or performed since the end of the Mad King's reign. It seems the North has longer memories indeed. The stories also spoke that one of the dragon sisters lay with a man of the mountain.

"As you said your Grace," Lady Stark intervened, "it has been too long. And for others not nearly as long." Now her sole attention remained upon the child.

"You fear for him; don't you?" To the two Ladies it seemed like a question, but it sounded as more a statement of observance than otherwise.

"I fear for what might be taken more so than what might be left." Cersei was curious and puzzled by such a statement. "Few people outside of House Stark know the truth," Lady Stark carried on, "but it has been recorded that when a Stark is laid to rest, a part of him is matched to the cold living statues of their likeness." Disbelief at such a revelation was slowly upon her features and yet she saw the Lady of Winterfell shed tears of truth at this. "Ever watchful and ever silent. Frozen in time." The tears continued; unashamedly so.

An air of quiet silence seemed to take hold. Each of the three women digesting this piece of truth in their own way. Broken however by the mountain lady.

"A part of me envy's you Lady Stark; and you as well your Grace." She turned respectively to each in turn. "To have borne and see them grow with your own eyes. To have nursed them, held them, kissed away their tears and shielded them from the dangers of pain." This was a moment she thought she would never see from Lady Ashara, the epitome of Dornish strength and resilience. But between what her husband the King and Ned Stark did to her after the war would test her in ways that Cersei knew she would fail as a woman; and as a mother. "To know all their laughter and sorrow, their joy and deepest fears. I envy and _hate_ you; **Lady** **Stark**. Though with every fiber of my soul no child should suffer this." The passion of her conviction filled every syllable of every word.

Once more an awkward silence descends briefly. Cersei knows not what compelled her to break the silence, but the face of the young wolf cub was recalling memories of might have been. They were of times that could have been.

"He seems so at peace for one so young and small." Cersei began before she even realized it. "Before my children I bore another. When Robert first heard the news, he could not stop his excitement in sharing. When the time came, I was elated beyond words and fearful as all new mothers are. For hours I cried and groaned, hoping with gasping breath that all would turn well. Then at last into the world he came, Steffon Baratheon, my firstborn. My son. The room was filled with his cries and the work of the Maester and midwives." She stopped in hesitation. The memories threatening to shatter her again. "Suddenly the room began to quiet to the point of utter silence." Catelyn and Ashara were fully engrossed in the tale. "With all the strength that still resided in me I screamed till I screamed no more for to hold my son. I was denied many times, but at last my roaring was matched by that of my husband. He chose that moment to burst in and see what the matter was."

Cersei now could not stop herself from shivering in grief. Tears threatened at her eyes, yet they did not emerge. Lions did not cry before others, Queens especially. Drawing a large enough breath, she continued.

"It took several of the guards and Kingsguard knights to keep Robert's wrath at bay. His hands were bloodied raw from hitting whatever was in reach." A soft sad chuckle escaped her in a huff. "Men like to imagine themselves stronger than women, yet they don't truly understand what it is we face." Cersei could not stay any longer. To stay was to admit her own weakness and that was something a lioness does not do. As she turned and passed a maid servant, she thought she recognized something familiar.

Dark hair and mismatched eyes.

 **Author's Note:** _If I haven't said this before, let me say it now. I hate with a passion writing conversations. Especially when I don't know if what I'm thinking is matching what I'm putting down. Again, there is much I wanted to add in this chapter but there is a certain (or uncertain LOL) method to this madness. When the next chapter comes it will be in three parts and time skip. So, fair warning dear readers._

 _Also, the interludes will be mostly filler chapters to explain, through a character's perspective, what has or has not transpired in the world._

 _George R. R. Martin has been known to say that A Song of Ice & Fire is not a fantasy story like Tolkien or C. S. Lewis. Yet the dragons themselves in his tory represent a return of the magic that has long since vanished from the lands of Westeros._

 _Thanks for putting up with me so far._

 _Sincerely,_ **Marinebrat25**


	12. Chapter 10: Journey Begins, March or Die

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones X.I-**

The road to one's future is ever long and winding. Depending on choices that he makes determines the type of life he will have or endure; in some instances, both. All young men must find their own way in the world, the journey itself an uncertainty.

 **King's Road, Crossroads**

 _Jon looked over his shoulder one last time to see the direction of the place that was the only home he ever knew. For a bastard such as he it never felt like a home no matter how many assurances he received. The place held a certain air about it, as if he belonged elsewhere._

 _It saddened him to know that he could not give a proper farewell to his younger half-sibling. The Lady Stark voiced her mind on the matter well enough. But allowed a quick enough goodbye. It still hurt after all, leaving to become his own man. His other brother, Robb, tried even as they embraced in farewell to convince him to stay. Jon would not be persuaded; his calling of the blood was out beyond the walls of Winterfell. But before this point he knew not what he should do. The Nights Watch, though perhaps not what it once was, still retained a strong enough reputation in it's continuing duty to help the infamous Legion of the Damned to maintain the Wall. Another choice would be to journey across the sea to become a sell sword of no honor but great wealth and fame. Master Tyrion gave him an education the likes of which he did not find possible. He was the paymaster to the greatest and, some would say, most dangerous mercenary force in the known world;_ _ **the**_ _ **Legion**_ _._

 _Whatever his choice, it was his and his alone to make._

 _The wind seemed to shift and flutter. Banners and pennants billowed with the winds. Horses huffed and grunted as they carried there loads and charges upon the differing roads. The largest consisting of the royal procession, guards, and escorts. Amongst them were the grey banners of house Stark, the Lord traveling south with his King. A somewhat bitter thought for Jon to come to terms with. This line of thinking was Russ' doing. But it was no matter now as Lord Stark took his two daughters, with their respective direwolves, a company of honor guard sworn swords and a light detail of Wolf Guard outriders. Jon waived lightly to the Stark wheelhouse as it passed him. His sisters stared back in quiet sadness at the farewell their brother offered. Sansa's demeanor was calm, yet her eyes even in the morning light were shining brightly._

 _Before they departed the castle, Jon approached them both. They exchanged promises and pleasantries, and Jon desperately wished he had ore to give. The girls would hear none of it. Sansa used her crafts to make a runic northern blessing. A simple piece of cloth that somehow thrummed with ancient power. She spoke to him motherly; the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, and that a Stark is never alone. As part of the blessing she gently kissed upon his head wishing him safe travels and good fortune. Arya; not wanting to be outdone, plucked a small stone from the pool in front of the Winterfell weir wood heart tree. With a nearby tool she chiseled her rune name into the stone. She told him in so many words to keep it as a promise, and to never forget._

 _Arya waved goodbye fiercely with teary eyes, almost as if she would not see him again. Jon lowered his hand to a pouch within his belt that contained the stone and somewhat absentmindedly turned it over this way and that. Himself and Ghost remained rooted as the wheelhouses, wagons, and escorts continued. An unexpected, but most welcome, hand landed on his shoulder. Deep grey eyes on a strong weathered face confronted him._

 _"It's never an easy thing," Jon's father spoke sullenly, "leaving one's home and loved ones." He gestured to a smaller and less prestigious convoy heading in a differing direction. No great banners, no wheelhouses, no ornamented arms or garments. Only the rugged equipment of various accoutrements necessary for life on the road. At its head stood a man of similar stature and appearance, a blooded kinsman that; in his own way, forsook the Wall or Lordship to become his own man. It was something that the two brothers did not see eye to eye on. Jon asked both the same question; surprisingly their answer was the same._

 _'One day, someone you love will be taken. Someone that you would do anything and everything for. I pray that it does not come to pass for yourself, but should it happen then perhaps you will understand what befell our relations.'_

 _"It is an honorable thing to join the Nights Watch, to serve for something better than yourself." Jon heard the words, but his choice was made. He hung his head, ashamed of his choice and how it might be received. "It is also honorable," Jon perked slightly at this, "to want for something in pursuit of something greater. Perhaps this is a road you must travel Jon." Jon was anxious and mayhap frightened as well. He studied and took in every part of this moment._

 _"All my life I've dreamed of being a Stark." The words were merely a repeat of previous times he'd spoken them, but the conviction was still nonetheless heartfelt and true. "To be able to belong and to be loved. To know that regardless of whatever may come, wherever I may go, there are those that I can recall as family." The look on his father's brow became deeply troubled. It may be a trick of the imagination on Jon's part yet might have been his father so wanted to tell him something. "Father," he whispered softly catching the greying Stark's gaze, "is my mother alive? Did she even know of me, if I lived or died?" His father frowned once more in contemplation. "Did she even love me?" Bitterness began to seep into his voice in the question which earned his father's swift rebuke._

 _"Your mother loved you with every fiber of her being." His graveled voice felt like cold steel in his heart. "Were she here and now you would have known better than to utter those words. Never doubt that while you may not have my name you are of my blood; a Stark." Jon was admonished, yet relieved to hear those words. Still it was within him, the want of a name and a family. "If ever we meet again; after you are a man grown," Jon chuckled softly to this as he felt otherwise, but kept such notions to himself, "at that time shall I tell you everything. The truth of your mother's life." With that there was nothing more to be said._

 _Jon, now consciously aware that he stilled toyed with the stone tucked it back securely in his belt before urging his mount onwards to his uncle and entourage. Ghost, following faithfully and loyally t his heels. As he neared his uncle, he glanced back to see his father. Still rooted in place at the crossroad, sitting upon his horse ever stoic. The epitome of northern lordship in Jon's mind. He didn't notice his uncle's presence upon him; something compelled him to ask all the same. "Will I ever see him again?"_

 _"Such as we are, you will be." Jon frowned in confusion before turning once more upon his uncle. "How good's your Valyrian?" He asked this perhaps in jest but at Jon's disbelieving look merely sighed in exasperation. "Well, it is a long journey."_

 **Braavos, A port in Ragman's Harbor**

At first Jon could not believe it. The stories and tales from the sailors onboard were false. And yet there it was for all the gods to witness. The Titan of Braavos. A statue of truly epic proportions as if made by the gods themselves. The titan towered over the entrance to the city with its equally massive sword raised to the heavens. The sights that followed were the massive fortress that seemed to arm, house, and supply the merchant warships of Braavos against free roaming pirates. Jon was lucky enough to survive a brief encounter with one such vessel, but the sailors and mariners of northern ships have feared reputations and large crews for such situations. And if the tales be true Umber Berserkers have loaned one or two of its champions to solidify their prowess at sea.

Northerners are not born seamen, save those of Bear Island. Jon throughout most of the voyage from White Harbor remained at bed or worked on acquiring his sea legs much to the enjoyment of others. Ghost did not fare any better either unfortunately. In-between it all Jon isolated himself in personal solitude to take in his new surroundings. Perhaps to others it looked at first glance as self-inflicted solitude, never mingling or enjoying the company of others. Some amongst those n board were not keen on his choice of alienation. They remained silent however as it was not their place, nor were they inclined to include a loner such as he.

Ships of varying sizes and styles came and went pass, to, and from the ports of Braavos and its main defense arsenal. The real splendor was the city itself that seemed to rise somehow from the water's surface. His only comparison to such a sight was White Harbor when he left the land of his forebears. Braavos it seemed had a splendor all its own.

" **All hands to stations**! **Clear away and make ready to port**!" The sound of a pipe whistle combined with the First Mate's shouted orders broke Jon from his sightseeing to glance upon the fast approaching dockyards. From the distance he could make out several other ships coming to port as well but did not unload crew or cargo. There were people mulling about as if waiting for something to occur. Jon however had not the time to watch and see as his uncle grabbed him by an arm and snapped into him.

"Heave to little _nephew_ ," Jon flinched at the use of the word; it somehow felt more foreign with every use. "Best make yourself useful or scarce. Come dockside however," he leaned close predatorily to whisper which made the skin crawl, "your ass belongs to me now." He was at a loss of what to say to that. His only savior in the form of Ghost growling menacingly from behind on the lower deck. His uncle released his grip and proceeded with his own preparations. Ever since he started down this path of independence it seemed more and more that he knew next to nothing about his uncle. The small handful of times they spoke any sort of words to each other was about little things required for the journey ahead or in finding out what life Jon had at Winterfell before leaving. The conversations shockingly were in Valyrian; at least some form of it anyway. Were it not for the Stark-like features he would swear this man was like anyone else who saw him. A rich lord's bastard who was either spoiled or not worth caring for.

Within a matter of minutes, the ship rested beside the dock without hindrance or troubles. The crew of the ship carried about their duties to shore up. The passengers aboard milled about on deck for a moment before being urged 'gently' from the ships officers to move off. Jon breathed deeply of the warm salty air, Ghost alongside him with nose high in the air sniffing this way and that. Jon scanned his sight around him; sailors, dock workers, harbor masters, and others went about their ways. None seemed to pay heed to Jon and his 'dog', even though said dog was showing signs of a size relative to a large pony. Jon waited for another moment or two before proceeding along the pier to the 'mainland'. Point of fact; the mainland was still further on for several miles or so. The noise was very, exotic. The warm summer air mixed with the sea's breeze combined with the many shapes and faces of those round him. Oils and perfumes gave him an intoxicating experience to be sure. Ghost was almost gliding as he walked beside his human companion. That is until a shift made them both wary.

There, waiting some distance from piers end, standing at attention were a small group of fully armed and armored individuals. These individuals were clothed in colors he was not familiar with, that of a black wolf's head howling at a crescent moon and star; the main garment of white looking bleached giving it the appearance of dried bone. Crimson trimming denoted a sort of importance to these individuals and who they were a part of. Behind them waited others similarly attired with at least a dozen large wagons. Jon, without noticing much, became part of a large group of men and women. All of them looked and smelled fresh off ship just like him and Ghost. They gawked and stared confused as to why these people were there. A voice behind them raised out and got their attention.

"Listen closely and listen well." His uncle came riding down the pier from the ship he came off himself. Everyone jumped and moved to get out of the way from being ridden down. He slowed to a cantor before halting in front of the armored group, one of which snapped a salute to Jon's uncle. His uncle returned the gesture with a nod of respect before turning to address the gathered people. "Every one of you, from differing origins and walks of life all have two things in common. The first and most obvious is that you are all Northmen, which among us holds special meaning. The second is that regardless of reasons you have all chosen to join _**The Legion**_." The last words were foreign to those gathered save for Jon. It was slowly becoming apparent as to why his uncle wanted him to know Valyrian. "From this moment on whatever you were, whoever you may have left behind, and wherever life you once knew is no more. There is only your new home and family; _**March or Die**_!"

" _ **MARCH OR DIE**_!" The responding shout was intimidating in its delivery and Jon was starting to reconsider his choice. But even as he asked himself, 'what the fuck am I doing here', his uncle gave a sharp nod once more to the tallest armored soldier who then started a chain reaction of shouted commands, gestures and movements. The armored soldiers pushed, shoved, and kicked the assembled into the wagons all the while shouting words and commands no one seemed to understand. Jon, for his part, tried to help those nearest him with what they were saying but there was too much happening at once and too quickly to be of any help. Even Ghost was swept up into the whirlwind of shouting and movement of limbs.

When the last was fully crammed into one of the wagons a shouted order was given, and the wagon train began its journey to an unknown destination. Jon swerved his vision this way and that to see all that he was passing by. River canals and side streets. Alleyways that grew darker the further in you went. Market places and social gatherings of 'many' patronages flew by in a sort of blur. Large monuments and buildings of style and sculpt gave Jon the firm idea of a proud heritage and culture. Vastly different from what he was used to for certain, though similar in spirit. The few faces of the people he saw were of many skin tones. Each person, regardless of skin, dressed very well and with pride; no matter their background or past. There were several larger sized dome-like buildings that caught Jon's attention for certain.

"I see you've noticed the temples." The voice of his uncle was near, and Jon strained himself to look upon him. "The temple of the Red Priests and Priestesses, along with the House of Black and White are not for the likes of us. For those who go in are never seen ever again; ever." Jon by this time was still silent with his uncle. The view that his uncle abandoned family out of petty spite was prevailing in his thoughts. These thoughts now were beginning to take hold and twist what lied underneath.

"I don't belong anywhere," Jon growled, "all my life I was told what to believe, how to act, and what was necessary to live." The anger raged within him at his uncle's scoffing indifference. "I felt like a _slave_ in a home that bore no love for me. While you lived a free life, abandoning your family for money." The wagons slowed their pace to an abrupt screeching halt. The soldiers began their work once more, shouting kicking and cursing in the foreign tongue of those long since dead or forgotten. Jon however was the exception as his uncle voiced a command which was followed by yelping and anxious whines from Ghost. In a moment Jon was searching for the trouble when strong hands gripped his leathers and hauled him overhead from the wagon to the ground. Punches, kicks, blunted objects of unknown materials and more rained upon his personage. At first Jon tried to fight back but grew weary from the unknown assault until at last it ended. Once more he was hauled, only this time dragged across the ground and dropped before a tall black figure. A figure that knelt to lean in and whisper words into his ear.

"You know nothing _Jon Snow_." The figure sneered is name evilly like it was empty trash. "My life and the choices I have made are **mine** , and mine alone." Jon groaned silently as he slowly and painfully tried to look up into the figure's eyes. A strong hand crashed on his head and held it fast to the ground. "Too many men and women, far better than you, know what it truly means the life of a slave. And your crying your eyes because you didn't receive enough _love_?" The tone in the figures voice was incredulous, even after the person asked the question. "You want love, find a whore and bed her. You miss your home, so what?! If you think I'm hard now, then none of you have seen **SHIT**!" He now addressed those assembled instead of Jon. "Thanks to this boy and his whining, all of you will now march the full days journey to the training barracks." Jon tried once more to look up. Painfully out of one eye he spotted his uncle looking on him with his father's eyes, even as he shouted to him.

" _ **MARCH OR DIE**_!"

 **Author's Note:** Saw the first two episodes of Season 8 Game of Throne's. OUT-FUCKING-STANDING! Though I was disappointed in some of the little things, nothing major, just been reading too much fanfiction to fully enjoy the "canon" route of the story. Episode 3 better be fucking badass to make me wait a whole fucking year. (EXTREME deep sigh)

All that aside there was much I truly intended for this chapter, but whether out of TV angst, laziness or lack of flowing material to meld into the chapter I am simply moving on as there are others and other events to cover. I'll tell you; I will not become like certain others that take too fucking long. But I forget that this is merely a hobby for personal gratification and social enjoyment.(lol)

In every chapter I **TRY** to improve just a little in my writing. Eventually I'll find what works. Many thanks for putting up with me.

 _Sincerely,_ _ **Marinebrat25**_


	13. Chapter 10: Journey Begins, 'Not Today'

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones X.II-**

Along the winding paths of life, one is tempted often to stray in favor for what is easy. Those same choices are made all the easier when others whom travel with guide along with certain temptations. In the end, what we strive for is not always what we become.

 **Winterfell**

 _They were at it again. She had seen them come and go numerous times. She could not understand such use for feelings such as these. The whispers, the sudden vanishes that had them returning worse for wear. The worse was perhaps when she caught sight of them in the woods. It was; strange. The closeness, the kissing, the roaming of their hands upon each other's bodies. The worst was perhaps hearing his name pass from her lips as she grew louder with their ministrations. The longer she stood there watching the more she became confused at what she was witnessing. As she saw it happening before her the more the pain inside her chest ached. The more it ached the more the tears seemed to come unbidden._

 _Her only friend in that moment of supposed weakness was her direwolf companion. She whined softly and lowly, licking her palm gently in a sort of soothing gesture. While it assuaged her pain somewhat, she could not bear to remain in that place. She ran swift and silent as she had been taught. Never stopping till she reached anywhere that was safe and understanding. Her feet carried her to a place she felt familiar, but her mind cared not where. For so distraught was she that she did not bother to check if her companion was beside her or where she had come to till the door had flung open and there before her was a scene reminiscent of earlier._

 _It was perhaps a second or two, but she saw it as clear as crystal. Her elder sister sharing a kiss that may have been more than chaste with her secret lover. The shock of their discovery was evident on their faces. Her sister was not so much shouting as she was angrily distraught that she interrupted what was supposed to be an intimate moment. Signs of which while not physical were no less noticed; 'subtle'. The young man, more so nervous, attempted to calm her down; placing gentle touches to her elder sisters' shoulders. Words were being spoken, emotions were rising and falling, yet through it all she heard not a word. Her own emotions began to catch up to her thoughts and finally erupted upon her sibling and the young man._

 _"_ ** _IT'S NOT FAIR_** _," the scream of raw emotion poured forth putting both elders in a stupor. "_ ** _WHY WAS HE DOING THOSE THINGS WITH_** _—" She began opening and closing her jaw tightly as no words came. "_ ** _WHAT ABOUT ME_** _?!_ ** _WHY NOT ME_** _?!_ ** _WHY DOES EVERYONE BUT ME GET TO EXPERIENCE IT_** _?!" The elders shared a look between each other, almost as if they were suspecting the same idea at once. "_ ** _WHATEVER THIS FEELING IS I DON'T WANT IT TO HURT ANYMORE_** _!_ ** _WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GODS IS WRONG WITH ME_** _?!" With what remained of her strength she catapulted herself into her sisters' skirts crying and sobbing in great heaves. At first her sister felt off guard with the outburst followed by the emotional child burying her face into her dress. As much as she liked that dress her sister was more important and wrapped her long arms around her, motherly she shushed and whispered soothing words to the young girl._

 _Unbeknownst to her the young man set his jaw tightly and his dark eyes began to give a hollow like effect. He whispered something to the elder sister before striding off in an angry rush. His intentions now focused on something or someone else. The only ones left in the room were the two sisters. The youngest slowly quieting in her sobs and the eldest still calmly fussing over her. Eventually time had passed but neither knew how long nor cared for that matter. The younger now silent as the elder now sought to find an answer._

 _"What was it?" she asked in that soft tone, like what their mother used when trying to get something from them. She chose silence as her answer, however. The scene she bore witness to was still not fully comprehended, but she nonetheless knew of its existence. To see it in the flesh was another matter._

 _"I saw them," she spoke at last._

 _"Whom was it that you saw?" Her question both filled with worry and confusion._

 _"I saw;_ ** _THEM_** _, joining." She said again as if it needed no explanation. This left a somewhat awkward silence between the pair of them. It was something neither had experience much with._

 _"I'm sorry sister," the eldest finally spoke. "I never meant to ignore you as I have. There are times when you continually make me angry and ruin things." A soft chuckle came from the young girl in response to this. "I can't tell you I will understand everything," a hand reached under her chin to gently have the young girl look at her elder sibling, "but no matter what happens I promise to always listen." She furiously rubbed away the many tears. Her eyes red and raw saw something different in her sister._

" _If you tell anyone I acted like this I swear I will kick your ass in a duel." Her sister laughed full of mirth at this small show of bravado, yet her eyes gleamed just a little denoting a hard-like edge to that challenge. Something carried on the wind through the room's open window. It was soft and muted at first. Soon it was joined by others, others that both sisters knew by familiarity. Gathering themselves together they flew through the castle quick as a cat on the hunt._

 _Once outside the sound was loud and droning in mournful continuance. They moved once more to seek out its source, until at last there before them at the foot of an unfinished tower it was revealed. A young body somewhat twisted and deformed surrounded by four direwolves howling their cries. The younger ran to the group to tend to the body. The elder gazed angrily at two others who were there. Both were of raven hair; and while fully clothed and passable, they smelled of intimate closeness and sex. Even from this distance._

 _A promise was made from that moment. One with perhaps far reaching or life altering changes._

 **The Riverlands, Riverbanks of the Trident**

The betrothal was unexpected. Sansa was surprised beyond words when it was announced. Her parents were equally surprised; as was the queen. Each were for differing reasons. Her father was bound by honor that he learned from his time in the Vale. To deny the King, his _friend_ , was not something he was capable of. Something still plagued her father's thoughts, most likely from the Rebellion. Her mother saw that it was Sansa's duty to bring honor to the family by marrying the Crown Prince and raising a family of her own.

The Queen was very difficult to assess. Beyond her eyes practically nothing was revealed. No hint or sign of emotion. Her son was both delighted and ecstatic of the announcement. His charming smile ever shining for her. Myrcella was adamant in telling her how wonderful it would be as sisters. Even young Prince Tommen could not contain himself. The King was proud of himself as if he had achieved a monumental victory in battle. 'Finally,' he had said, 'the match that should have been between our two Houses.' The royal family both awed and repulsed her. This was a family that did not feel like a family should. Sansa only had her own family to compare it to, yet it still was one she could be proud of.

It was painful. Leaving her home was something she was always mindfully aware would happen one day, but more so the fact that she would not know the fate of her younger brother. Maester Luwin assured them all that Bran would live yet could not give certainty that he would awake from his deep slumber. Maester Luwin is both wise and venerable having served the Stark family for many years. His unyielding calm and patient demeanor gave him a sort of grandfather like effect with those that knew him best. In the end, for all his talents, skills, and experiences, Sansa took it upon herself to try something else for her sibling or be damned by the gods for nothing.

The farewells were long and tearful for her. Sansa believed she would never see them again. She thus took to her needle work to fashion up something for those she would miss the most. Her mother did not wish to be disturbed, she forbade anyone seeing Bran, Rickon was confused and lashing out at anything he saw as a threat, Robb was quietly stoic though she knew better that underneath it all he was saddened by recent events; and finally Jon, who against everyone's wishes chose to leave for a life of his own. Sansa had used her crafts to make a runic northern blessing for him above others. A simple piece of cloth that bore more meaning than all the finest silks and cloths. Russ, for all his faults, was the one to teach her how simple words and letters always had meaning.

In the case of Jon, she spoke to him motherly; the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, and that a Stark is never alone. This was something she truly wished to instill in him as he continued to brood not being one of them. As part of the blessing she bestowed a gentle kiss upon his head wishing him safe travels and good fortune. Her sister Arya; not wanting to be outdone, decided to pluck a small stone from the pool in front of the Winterfell weir wood heart tree that they stood in front of. With a nearby tool she 'borrowed' and began to chisel her runic name into the stone. She mumbled and stuttered her words, but the effect was the same. To keep it as a promise and to never forget.

It had been at least a month, maybe two, since Sansa left her home of Winterfell. Both sisters were to ride in the wheelhouse with the Queen and her two youngest children. Arya was vehemently against the idea of spending the entire trip with the royal family. Sansa did not speak against her sister's opinion, but she did not speak for it either. The two tried to make the best of it or in Arya's position gripe in silent suffrage. Tommen seemed shy and quiet, but he soaked in every word and action that Arya conveyed. He always had a smile for her to which Arya found silly, but she didn't discourage it either. Myrcella shared stories with Sansa. It soon became a game of sorts as to who could tell the most fanciful and romantic story. For a southron girl Myrcella was too innocent and sweet, a refreshing change to her wild sister's antics.

Lady and Nymeria were forever at their companions' side during travel, but by order of the King and Queen had to remain leashed or caged. The latter only serving to build Arya's contempt for them. Whenever she could she tried to spend time in peace or in training. The training itself did not cease simply because they were not with their master. The Queen in the absence of the mother chastised the girls and remind them of how a lady is supposed to act. Sansa ever the dutiful one had to remind her wild young sibling of what was required, especially when they arrived in the capitol. Arya would huff and pout but remained silent for family's sake.

During all this Joffrey merely observed from a respectable distance. When he and Sansa were together, they simply talked of little things getting to know one another. Sansa's Septa or the Queen watching from a distance over them. Other times he would sit and listen to her play her fluted instrument as if caught in a trance. Passing servants and guardsmen too suffering a similar effect, that is until more level minded individuals sternly reminded them of more 'pressing' concerns. Sansa felt weary though, especially seeing the taxing looks on her father when he was called to aid the King in some manner. Honestly; as if dealing with an overgrown male child. The thought brought laughter to herself at some of the misadventures that Dacey, Daryn, Domeric, Smalljon and Russ would be up to. Thick as thieves without a care.

This in part reminded her of the conversation she had with Russ before leaving Winterfell. Suffice it to say neither party was satisfied with how they left; stubbornness being both a blessing and curse for northerners. What was done is done and Sansa felt confident she was in the right. For now, she would take a stroll with Lady. The morning was crisp and clear and after the lengthy travel she desired to stretch her legs. Her father insisted on Wolf Guards watching over her, but she firmly reminded him that she could not remain a child forever. With Lady in tow she came upon a riverbank and sat gingerly on a nearby tree stump watching the waters of the Trident river as the Sun shined in its rising.

There were so many stories that Sansa was told of her mother's homeland but to experience it firsthand was quite something altogether. The warm summer sun casting its bright gaze upon the earth, the winds softly blowing among the trees, and the songs of birds filling the air around her. Sansa allowed the serenity of the moment fill her senses. There are moments, she began thinking to herself, that can change a person's life for all of time. And as Sansa sat in the riverbank glade with her direwolf nestling in the nearby grass asking if she would ever see her winter home again. The cracking of the many fires, the steam pools that lay beneath the castle. A part of her wondered if she even **_wanted_** to return. Sansa sat in wonder and content, not even noticing the lapse of time.

 _TCHING_

 _TCHINK_

Sansa felt startled by the faint sounds then recognized them for clashing steel. Discomfited from her impromptu rest Sansa had to regain her senses before journeying out of curiosity where the sounds came. Lady was unconcerned with the disturbance having heard it before. Sansa felt more and more certain that whatever this was it would turn worse than when it started. She was proven correct when a child of Arya's age appeared from nowhere in a hurried manner. He gasped at seeing Sansa yet said nothing. The small blade like scratch on his left cheek and the frightened look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. Before she moved toward him to say a word a young girl's shout caught both of their attentions behind him. The boy however turned back to run off behind Sansa, saying nothing as he went as fast as his feet would carry.

"Lady, to me!" She shouted to where she came. Lady came indeed at a trot believing that nothing was the matter. "Seek boy; protect." The tone of her voice painted well enough the importance of the command. And as calm as Lady projected the sharpness within her eyes would reveal the seriousness of her response. Swifter than the wind she vanished to search for her charge. Swift and graceful, in any other point of time Sansa would be proud. Now was not that time. She raced off to the direction of the supposed shout; her dress allowing whatever freedom she could acquire. When she emerged from a thicketed brush of trees the scene before her was something she dreaded would happen.

The Prince was laying on the ground near the riverbank clutching his arm in terrified desperation mewling and babbling. The arm itself was bloody, not enough to cause panic mind but certainly enough to need medicinal treatment. An armored knight stood squaring off against Nymeria with his blade drawn, not on the wolf no, but on Arya who tried this way and that to squirm free of the knight's grasp. The knight paying no mind to her as he growled profanities at the snarling angry direwolf; blood upon its snout.

"In the name of the gods stay this madness!" The shriek, though unintentional, had a desired enough effect on those present although different to their own.

"Stay out of this girl," the knight growled, "this is no matter of your concern." Finished speaking to her he carried on taunting and insulting the direwolf again in to making an attack. His blade ever near to Arya's neck, near enough not to draw blood; but close enough to insinuate the intent. Paying no further mind to whomever else was there.

" **Kill them**!" The Prince screeched in his delirium of pain and shock. " **Kill the bitch and her wolf**!" The look within his once charming eyes hinted something; _sinister_. For the moment Sansa could only claim that the boy was not of the right mind at this time and again tried to take charge of the matter. Her eyes remained focus, her breathing stayed even; but her heart screamed to bursting at what was in front of her. Slowly she came forward to speak.

"Ser—"

"I am no knight **_girl_**." He snarled once more. She flinched at the brusqueness of his voice, hesitating for a second or two of her choice. What scared her most was the disfigurement of his face. Loose strands of hair barely covered the burn marks which came from the right fore-scalp to the right ear and down the cheek. Taking a measured breath, she exuded her confidence. Closer she came through to within polite distance. As she came forward, she carefully glided her left hand along Nymeria's spine stilling the wolf's anger. Her eyes flashed momentarily to Arya before returning once more on the man.

"Sandor of House Clegane," his vison narrowed upon her as she spoke, "your Prince, my betrothed, is wounded yet you waste time and energy on a mere girl; who so happens to be my sister and the daughter of Eddard Stark, friend of the King." He stared her up and down taking in what was before him. The Prince mewled and screamed in the background, but the sound to her was distorted as she confronted a man, who if he so chose, could either kill or have his way with her. She recalled in that instant one of her master's favorite sayings. "Tell me, what is it you value most?" The question was innocent enough yet conveyed all too real what Clegane now had to choose. She smirked just a little as he _felt_ more so than looked as Arya was pressing ever dangerously the spare knife she trained with into his manhood.

He closed his eyes tightly in angered frustration having to choose like this. A rising growl escaped his throat as Arya was shoved aggressively into Sansa's awaiting grasp. She held herself fast to her young sibling like she would vanish from sight once more all the while whispering, mostly to herself, words of quiet comfort. Clegane however sheathed his sword and grumbled in annoyance, picking up the Prince and carrying him away. He stopped short and turned on the pair ignoring Nymeria all the while as she growled menacingly.

"You're a **_pretty_** bird with **_pretty_** words; just like the rest." The stone quality of his voice left an impression that it was either a threat or a warning. Sansa deemed not to bother looking at him. Her eyes were intently focused on her sister, yet her words were assuredly meant for him in her response.

"One day you may think differently." She continued her soft ministrations. Arya relaxed in her sisters' arms, but never looked away from him. "On that day I hope to show you what a genuine smile looks like." Clegane scoffed and said no more, taking his leave through the brush towards the Inn and encampment for his Princes' safety. When his scent was fully gone that Nymeria and Arya shivered from the intense rush of the moment. Muffled sobs came from Arya as she buried her face into her sister's dress, Nymeria coming close whining with worry for the little Stark girl. Sansa could only hold her sister all the while trying to keep her emotions tempered. All that came to mind was what had been drilled into her.

" _What do we say to the god of death_ , Arya?" Sansa's 'high northern' accent would always ruin her Valyrian words. This, like now, always brought a snicker or two from Arya even between sobs.

" **Not today**." Was the whispered answer in the northern tongue. This form of speaking developed from the first days of training with Sansa kissed and stroked her sisters' hair. Nymeria joined by licking one of Arya's hands in relaxing motions. They shared together just the three of them, but Sansa knew there would be consequences.

"Now then. Quickly," she cupped her sibling's cheeks and meeting her eyes, "tell me what happened."

 **The Riverlands, Crossroads Inn**

Family. Duty. Honor.

Family. Duty. Honor.

No matter how this ends someone will lose significantly. Sansa was frantically going through the breathing methods of her teachers. Every step her mind recalled the words of her mother's house. There would be no support from them today. This was a matter between a noble house and the royal bloodline.

Family; blood is thicker than most things in various ways.

Duty; the many responsibilities of life and stations, upheld stoically with conviction.

Honor; the feeling of just contentment accomplished in one's deeds upon the moral high ground.

"Sansa." The honeyed words of the Queen brought her attention back briefly to the here and now. "Come here sweetling." The modest hall of the inn was full to bursting. Those who were required, needed or on hand; in that order, were present. Sansa was 'escorted' by guardsmen of House Lannister by 'request' of the Queen to bring forth a witness of what had transpired at the riverbanks. As she made her way forward left and right of her were more guardsmen clad in forged steel armor with red leathers and golden trims. The looks they cast on her were neither sympathetic nor hateful. More so the look of indifference; of annoyance and disregard. Some looked possibly haggard, as if roused from sleep abruptly or spent great effort on a certain task.

She emerged with effort, as none of the guardsmen were eager to yield the way, at last to the center of the room. Those gathered formed a ring around where the king currently sat. Near the main entrance side presided her father; his honor guard grouped and huddled for what might take place. Opposite of them were the bannerman guards of the royal family, clad in garments of red black and gold. Despite whatever else be said or done in this room every person armed with weapons bore intent to use them.

The King's son, her betrothed, stood to his right and the Queen on his left sort of hovering over him. The Kingsguard stood silent at attention. Jory, her father's captain, clad in the furs of his station took pride of place to protect his lord. Shocked and distressed emotions upon the face of her father who stood before the 'Stag King'. The King looked red faced and disinterested, the prince was troubled even with his sworn shield nearby to aid him, the Queen looked almost triumphant. Ser Jaime stood near to Sansa, ushering her towards the center of the room. Sansa could only comply amid all of this, yet her eyes never once left the other lone figure within the circle. Only when she had to pay respects and courtesies to the King did her sight leave her sister.

"Your Grace." She spoke even and with calm neutrality, staring into the eyes of the storm.

"All right then girl." The King spoke in even gruff tones whilst pointing a stubby finger at her. "Tell it all and tell it true. Tis a great crime to lie to your king."

"Your Grace." Her father was incensed, stepping forward to say so. "She did not witness what took place. She couldn't have been there."

"Your daughter was claimed to have been present." Spat the Queen in response. "Therefore, her perspective is necessary for this matter to be resolved." She appeared satisfied with her own surety on this. Sansa's lord father wished to protest further only to be silenced by the King.

"I'm sorry Ned, but this has to be done." Hearing no further argument, the King stared back to her. "All right then; speak." Sansa breathed as she had been trained. Slowly she closed her eyes in blinking to open them upon all present.

"Your Grace," she began, "I was enjoying a pleasant moment or two alone by the river when I heard a disturbance." Those presently gathered held breath for what she would speak. "Whatever had taken place had more or less been resolved after I had arrived."

"She lies—"

"One more word and I'll belt you myself boy!" The King's wrath was beginning to peak. For now, his anger was directed away from herself and her family. "Continue." Sansa breathed once more.

"I am truly sorry," she began evenly "but no matter what it is you wish of me your grace, Joffrey is to be my husband and Arya is my sister." Sansa bore a face devoid of emotion. Those who were present could describe this look in many ways giving _very_ different answers. All agreed unquestionably; this would be perhaps the moment the alternate persona was born. Her posture firm from head to toe like solid steel, her skin flushed with life yet pale, her almost bright auburn hair giving off a somewhat shining glow, and while her facial looks were neither described as hotly or cold like there was most assuredly a sharpness within her eyes. It was this sharpness that only one person in the hall could tell.

"The crime is evident." The Queen announced with some finality in her voice. "A punishment must be given…" This did not stand well with one other.

" **DAMN IT WOMAN** ; **CHILDREN FIGHT** ," the fury had been unleashed as the King slammed both fists on the chair's armrests. His great bellowing voice filling the hall almost knocking those of weaker wills to the floor. "Tis the way things are!" The Queen was not finished in the least.

"Your son is now scarred because of her." She turned her attention to her husband with barely concealed frustration and disdain at what she had heard. The King returned a look of his own back upon her.

"If he allowed himself to be beaten by a mere girl," his voice becoming more indifferent than when he began, "than the scar is the least of his problems." He turned his storm blue eyes from his Lannister wife to his eldest son, squinting his gaze as if contemplating his fate.

"Will that be all your grace?" Her father asked with slight trepidation in his words. Her father cared about their safety with a passion; some would claim almost to a fault. Sansa did not, yet, view this notion as weakness. Afterall as a family of wolves, direwolves in fact, it is essential to look after each other against their enemies. The King looked on his longtime friend out the corner of his left eye before looking on him fully.

"See to your daughter Ned," he said with raw finality as he rose from his seat, "and I shall deal with my son." Both men nodded to each other as the King made for the hall's main door and her father, Jory alongside, made to stand near his daughters in support. Arya buried herself in his embrace as Sansa stood near with head tapped together against her father's in loving affection. The sea of guardsmen parted before the presence of the King, but as he neared the main entrance a voice called out to him.

"And what of the wolf that attacked him?" The King stopped dead in his tracks. His back still to them as he looked offhand to his right muttering loudly to himself.

"I forgot about that damn wolf." He raised his head to a nearby bannerman in Baratheon colors. "Where is the beast?!"

"There was no sign of it your grace," he spoke matter-of-factly on this. "It has perhaps long run off." The King shifted as if the matter once more concluded, but again he would be denied respite.

"There is another." The Queen was now out for blood and would not suffer for less. Sansa's Lord father was slowly rising in his own northern anger. Arya became frantic; flailing her limbs and crying out to any who would listen to her pleas.

"No! Not Lady she didn't do anything. It was my fault—"

"Arya!" Her father shouted to contain his young she-wolf. His face a mask of grim futility and sadness. Deep within she knew he felt anger at this injustice.

"Then let it be done!" The King shouted to end it all. "A wolf is no pet, get her a dog. She'll be all the _better_ for it." He was neither sympathetic nor emphatic in his decision. He spoke simply as one does to be anywhere but in that place at that exact moment. Immediately finished speaking he marched for the hall doors stopping for nothing and no one else.

"Is this **just** your grace," her father shouted to the King's retreating form, "is this **right**?!" The King carried on with a will, never once looking back to his friend. Sansa's opinion of him grew more and more distasteful, but it was neither here nor there and a new concern was more pressing.

"Ser Illyn, fetch me the wolf's pelt." The Queen spoke authoritatively, and at once the mute-man moved to perform his task. Illyn Payne is known only for two things worth remembering; his silence in servitude and his grim purpose as ' _King's Justice_ '. Executioner more like; certainly not a position worthy of knighthood. And most certainly not something for the like of _him_. This was something Sansa would not allow if she could help it.

"No." The simple word was not shouted, roared, or in any manner raised above what would be considered a polite conversational tone. Ser Illyn halted mid-step looking between his Queen and Sansa, his eyes as uncaring as ever. Those near enough now fixated on Sansa once more. Banners of various colors looked would conclude. The Queen and Prince still where they stood, the Prince gawking awkwardly as if she had danced a foolish dance whilst naked while the Queen stared incredulously at whom she thought an otherwise naïve young girl. "Lady is my responsibility."

"Sansa…" Her father spoke, but it was not his words. They sounded as if from a more weak-willed individual, a world-wearier broken man than the strong well-built northern force that was her father. His gentle face threatened to expose his protective nature, and this would not do for Sansa.

"As you told us father," she started gently, "we will train them, feed them, and bury them ourselves. More than that," she straightened up just a little, "Lady is of the North; our way is the old way." With one look and he knew she was right. His mouth closed tight, his eye lids closed slowly and with a grim sadness, that only a Stark was capable of, he bowed his head in acknowledgement. Arya bore a face that showed she was against it. She firmly would have claimed that had things been different Sansa would have collapsed a broken mess at sacrificing her beloved Lady. But since that first day their father stood his ground for his children to be raised the northern way Sansa had become someone else almost entirely. At this point all Arya was able to do was to nod in understanding to her elder sister for what was necessary. Sansa was grateful for this understanding, if not she would not be able to summon the strength to do what needs must.

"You are young still sweetling," the Queen lightly laughed, "leave things of this nature to others more suited." Again, she nodded in the direction of Ser Illyn who for the second time moved to carry out justice only to, again, be halted from his duty.

"With your permission," Sansa bowed her head and curtseyed low in show of acquiescence, "your grace, my betrothed prince has been injured by my blood." She raised only a little to cast her sight on the wounded Prince as she made her plea. "I must in my own way seek to repair what was damaged." The Prince seemed baffled by the words of her request and looked uncertainly at his mother and those in attendance as if the answer would suddenly present itself out of thin air. When he caught her gaze upon his own, he slowly calmed and smirked. Almost gleefully he nodded to his mother as to his decision.

"Very well." She spoke reluctantly. "Let it be done." The final authority had been given men women and others vanished with a will from the hall. Sansa was chief among them. She made her way, without a glance as to what went on around her personage, to where she knew Lady would be. Her direwolf was not alone though and while she is not completely hostile by nature, she was fiercely protective. The scene before Sansa in the night air surrounded by camp and torch fire was the armored figure of Sandor Clegane staring down upon Lady who stood above the bloodied form of the boy she was charged to protect. Sensing Sansa's presence nearby Lady relaxed her posture as Clegane turned his head to see her.

Sansa said nothing to him, strolling past him as though he were not there. She stood directly in front of Lady looking upon the wolf with saddened eyes, yet she could not cry; not yet. Slowly she knelt to her placing a gentle hand behind an ear and scratching affectionately. Lady leaned into the touch whimpering lowly and licking Sansa's cheeks. Clegane still stood where he was, merely watching the display with emotionless indifference. His eyes told a different story. If one looked close in the dark light it would be that of slight curiosity. The two females under the watchful eyes of the armored warrior shared a long silent moment together, perhaps knowing it to be the last they would ever share.

"Lady," Sansa choked out at last, "my dear sweet Lady. I need to know, beyond all doubt; do you trust me?" Both of her palms now grasped the sides of the direwolf's head staring into each other's eyes. They shared another moment till a sort of acceptance flashed through Lady's eyes, her head almost nodding in understanding. Receiving the answer, she was looking for Sansa slipped from her sleeve a long needle like dagger and with deft movements she slid the blade deep in the flesh of Lady. A small yelp escaped from the she-wolf as the blade did its work. "I am sorry for this and beg your forgiveness." A small tear escaped from Lady as the final breath passed from her. Sansa cradled her direwolf in her arms with forlorn love and devotion. Clegane remained as he was, his face still devoid of expression. He moved forward hesitantly to place a rough gloved hand upon her shoulder but stopped in mid-movement his fingers curling and uncurling before withdrawing his hand. He turned to move away and decided better to say nothing. Sansa for some time waited till he had left, all the while stroking the fur of Lady who still bore the needle within her. A few more strokes and she whispered lowly, as though to herself, an offhand comment. "He is gone."

Shuffled movement from the body nearby and the boy rose to a knee; his head bowed to her in silence and alertness. Sansa knew that given training and time much could be achieved. Her apprentice did not disappoint as he awaited instruction.

"You will escort Lady back to Winterfell." She ordered low in whisper, her hand still rubbing Lady's fur. From a fold within her dress she produced a small noted scroll for the boy to take. "For Domeric Bolton and no other." The boy nodded in compliance and took the proffered scroll. He shuffled forwards on both knees to carry the wolf away. The boy is northern so while difficult it was not impossible for him to carry his charge into the nightly darkness. Slowly Sansa stood and with tear stains on both cheeks and her vision tear soaked she turned to return to her sleep quarters. She whispered the words of her training as if they were a prayer to the Old Gods.

" _Not today_."

 **Author's Note:** Well, that is it then. The series of Game of Thrones is over. Ten or so years, thousands of hours spent performing and hard effort creating the world of Westeros; forever immortalized on film and in each of us.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion about the very last episode, season eight, or even the series. What I will take from it all is a wonderfully created epic that took me on an emotional roller coaster through every season. Like every fan out there I believed that certain things could have been done differently or altered; even fixed for that matter. In the end I have mixed feelings about it and may never know just what exactly it was that they were seeking to achieve.

My perspective on the end was that Daenerys sadly became the very thing she swore she would never become. Sansa realized her desire to become queen, but the path led her to realize hard truths and heartbreaks. Arya is a free spirt; plain and simple. She has achieved what her aunt could not achieve in her own life and time. As for Jon…

Ygritte's death was the first to break him. His own death and rebirth had him realize the futility of his actions and ought to ideally change. With his relationship to the 'White Queen' he did what needs must as Ned Stark would no doubt may have done. When he left beyond the wall with the Wildlings and Ghost, he essentially forsook everything behind him; a tragic story where he will now live as Lord Protector for the rest of his days.

Now as slow as I am writing up this project, I am determined more than ever to tell how I believe it should go. For those that feel it boring, unimaginative, cliché, etc. than you are most welcome to do better. Dannyblack70 is, so far as I know, finishing his version of 'Black Wolf Rising'; which I fully recommend.

Stay tuned dear readers. As always support and Ideas are appreciated.

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


	14. Chapter 10: Journey Begins, What Is Dead

**Disclaimer:** _A Game of Thrones is the property of George R. R. Martin._

 **The North**

 **-A Game of Thrones -**

There are many mysteries between man and beast; between the natural and unnatural. Individuals of great wisdom or of vain glories have sought and claimed to have unraveled these greater mysteries of life and death, but only a rare few, counted on one hand, have been blessed with the knowledge of truth and were honest enough to keep this truth from their fellow men.

Fewer have yet to realize what truths the children of natures' wilds may speak.

 **Winterfell, Tombs of House Stark**

 _The underground air was damp and cold. The musky smell of earth and stone weighed heavy in the air. Hundreds or thousands possibly of different scents filled the nostrils with each intake f breath. Scents of those long since passed. Who were they? Sires, grand-sires, ancients and old ones of a long-forgotten age. Many thoughts and questions such as these now filled the mind of the white wolf now known amongst the first men as Ghost. He sat in the deep torchlit caverns staring upon a she-statue of possibly great significance bearing a lantern; the light of which never ceasing or extinguishing. Whomever she might have been in life she finally became in death; a watcher over men and path guide for lost wolf-kin. Even now the faint sounds of a matriarch howls loudly as if nearby, yet softly in the far distance at the same time. The sound fills the soul like a crying child lost in the night without a pathway home. It is mournful and powerfully overwhelming, so overwhelming in fact that patters of nearby paws go unnoticed to this runt. It is not until the soft whimpers of his female siblings, licking behind his right ear, does he twitch and turn upon his pack siblings._

 _"What is it that troubles you 'little one'?" The auburn wolf known as Lady asks her sibling in jest. She sidles up next to him sitting on her hind quarters staring at him questionably while Nymeria patters around to the other side to comfort her 'runt' sibling. Ghost sighs in sad response. He only continues to brood in silence, gazing upon the cold figure before him as if an unspoken answer be given to him. Lady and Nymeria share a grim worried look of concern between each other as more patters of feet come down the dirt tunnel path._

 _"Ah leave him be," the somewhat arrogant sarcasm coming from the muscular form of Grey Wind, flanked of course by the younger male siblings. "He has taken to his companion's habits of solemn brooding, if only to fit in with the man-things." This earned a small enough chortle from the young ones before Lady put that to rest with one look, she silenced their humor and shamed them enough to bring her point across. Lady being the eldest she-wolf of their litter took upon herself the mantle of surrogate mother and protector. She personally felt the fault was hers for not being there to safeguard the man-cub known as Bran. Outwardly however she was vehement that any jests, no matter how small or grand in nature, made regarding the man-things would face a cold northern wrath not seen since the time of their ancestors. The three brothers patted softly with heads low. None dared raise themselves before the autumn colored wolf._

 _"Brother," the young Shaggydog asked towards his white wolf sibling, "what concerns you so?" Deep down Shaggydog is perhaps the more innocent and gentler of the litter, but his time spent with little Rickon has made him almost extremely savage and vicious in his protective ferocity. Amongst the others he allows himself to_ _ **be**_ _himself. Ghost at first did not acknowledge his brother, but with a growling nudge from Nymeria he began chuckling to himself before turning slowly upon him._

 _"Nothing to worry of 'little' one." Ghost's simple reply brought the mood back up and had everyone softly laughing at Shaggydogs' moniker. The 'little' wolf was not overly fond of this title and began to pout like his companion. Ghost though brought his eyes back to the she-statue. "Have any of you ever wonder why this is the only one among many that does not possess a companion?" Lady and Grey Wind, now settled from their humor, both looked upon the grave shrine. The truth was evident, but the puzzlement remained. How could this be and why? Each of them pondered their own thoughts in their own way; only one was vocal in what he was thinking._

 _"The winds of winters past, present, and future beckon forth the endless storms." All eyes turned to the golden wolf-sibling. "The history of first men will die, yet the laws of earth and sky remain. The nature of the beasts is one of survival. The coming of the end is to herald a new beginning." He pauses momentarily; his vision still fixated on the shrine before him. Stepping forth lightly then turning leisurely and somewhat methodically to address each sibling in turn. "Grey Wind," the aforementioned direwolf straightened at the sounding of his name, "you are as swift and deadly as the fierce winds of the world. You will rage and roam, never knowing your place nor settling roots of any kind." The male elder seemed disconcerted by this revelation but said nothing. "Winds of war will be your calling and to this I wish the blessings of the old ones upon you in your travels." An affirmed nod was given and received thus shifting attention to the white wolf with blood red eyes._

 _"We are more than what others perceive. So too is the nature of runts." A light chuckled sound escaped them all before resuming. "My watcher, my protector, my silent brother. Long will be your watch, but when it truly and finally ends I ask that you remember me fondly." There was a light sniffle of sadness at this as if Ghost believed he would never see his young brother again. "Your blessing and curse I deeply fear will be that you will be everlasting. Watching faithfully and forlorn upon those you love most." Ghost was emotionally riled at this, he greatly wished to give voice in disapproval to this; but ever slowly and silent the young wolf shook his head to stay his brother's feelings. Lady nuzzled and licked gently the tears of Ghost that threatened to spill on the earthen ground. She herself sniffling tears behind lidded eyes. Golden eyes looked upon the matriarch wolf with love and sorrow. The look alone conveying what few words can be expressed. If words were needed, then it was this._

 _"You_ _ **are**_ _our mother; never forget. Never." She nodded solemnly. Silent in understanding. His gaze then shifted focus onto the two whom would face the worst the world would offer. "Sister Nymeria, brother Shaggydog; you two are wild at heart and full of life." The light within their eyes beamed at this. The young wolf sighed in solemnity yet said nothing. Ghost observed that much of this was taking a toll upon the youngling. Much as he wanted to say he felt it was not his time or place to speak his piece. Perhaps in time he could say how he felt; then again it too felt as if his companion's thoughts and feelings rubbed off onto the young albino direwolf. The youngling straightened himself on his paws and addressed them._

 _"Each of us in our own way is feeling it; the calling of the blood. The time of great gathering when the blankets of white will drown the worlds' light into the darkness. We, the beast kindred of the children, must seek out the lost and call to all before the_ _ **Great**_ _ **Mother**_ _." A new sense of importance took shape in the air, Ghost and some of the others could taste it within their heightened senses. The youngling turned his back to them to stare up to the shrine once more. "The winds of winter bring the heralds of our end, the hope of spring blooms unto the world a renewal of continuous change followed only by the dreams of youth. The drums of autumn beckon us onward to the winding paths of many fates, each more undetermined then the last." Ghost could sense it now, a presence both foreign and familiar filling his senses. The vague form of another standing almost exactly and never at the same time in the same spot as his little sibling. "The light shall never fade." This was new, a strength of determination that Ghost had not seen before now. "Not so long as there are those whom bear long enough memories of the world before. I am a light in the dark, a bringer of flame amidst ice, a guiding guardian between fate and hope."_

 _In the light of the flame lit tunnels it could be said that a man's eyes can play tricks on the mind, as if the statue's moved or followed you with piercing visions. With great and almost long forgotten magics of the world who is to say. Yet at this moment ghost was certain of one thing; the she-statue that stood before him that was crying in sadness now cried in sheer joy, a small smile upon her face._

" _ **I**_ _ **am**_ _ **Summer**_ _!" With that declaration the newly named direwolf threw his head to the ceiling of the crypt eyes shut and howled his song to the spirts of those gathered. This in turn was immediately followed by the others present, a rounding chorus giving the song a deeper meaning to its depth. Ghost was the last to join in, but no matter how loud it was from the song or the echoes off the tunnel walls he could not drown out the one voice that was prevailingly dominant among the rest._

 _A mournful song of a mother's lament._

 **Winter Town, The "Lantern" District**

 _Eager and enthusiastic grunts and moans filled the room with reckless abandon. Passion and lust were the only things within the room. Clothes, boots, and various other sheets and garments were strewn about the floor of the room._

 _The room itself is not lavish by any means or stretch of the imagination, but neither is it plain or simple in aspect of design. A clash of styles coexisted to give the room a feel of its own. A sense of endurance mixed with comfort, ease, subtle art, and grace. And if one believes that somehow it is impossible to imagine such then one would surely be surprised to find that it is the case for all of what is called Winter Town. The town itself was at one time one of only a rare handful of large settlement areas in an otherwise vastly wild frontier. To say it became fortified or even expanded over the years since it's first founding would be grossly overestimated. Since the Stark expansion over the seas to Essos much more was built upon, renovated or even expanded giving the so-called town the appearance of a small, heavily fortified, city-like quality._

 _Then again, Theon never bothered himself with learning of history or any book learning subject of the sort._

 _His education was the way of women, wine, and war. His tales of 'conquest' were often lengthy and colorful to the point of religious extreme. Of those he has taken to bed none were more important than the woman he vigorously, and with great enthusiasm, thrusted deep into with every grunted effort. Her body and scent, in his mind, captured his attention like none other. Every curve, every twitch, every cry of bliss that escaped her lips in the throes of their passion drove him mad in ways words alone could not describe. Her hair flayed and flailed about like a crazed demon. He himself grunted and snarled like an untamed rutting beast; in fact, the scene itself might be described as two rutting beasts flailing about in silk linen. But as with all things, there must always be an end. A final shriek and shout and both collapsed onto the other in a sweaty heap, both panting heavily from their combined efforts._

 _"So," Theon managed between breaths, "is it true then?" A momentary pause. "Are you to travel south to Kings Landing?" He was rewarded with what sounded like lighthearted laughter. It was something he did not particularly enjoy tolerating, but to get his answer he carried on. "Well?!" Impatiently he asked turning his head to gaze at her._

 _The woman in question sighed deeply. Not in annoyance or tolerance, no this was patience and acceptance. Years of hardships and training gave her the patience needed for what was required of her. Years of hands on experience allowed her to accept that things were what they are, and nothing could change. The boy who lied beside her could not truly become a man without enduring hardship of his own. Such was the way of the North; endure in quiet defiance and a growing strength earned through hardship and sacrifice. To her he was nothing more than a petulant youth arrogant enough to believe he claimed that which he 'conquered', but it was nonetheless expected. Theon himself believed all was his and yet was taught that such was not the case. She flung her bright red curls over her opposite shoulder to gain better sight of him and with an even breath addressed him measured and calm._

 _"I see that wagging tongues have told you all you need to know." The tone was playful enough in response to his question, but Theon had come to call her as his 'favorite'. She was a rare find even in her line of work. He would not simply let her leave._

 _"They have told me," he gently grasped her by the neck with rough hands, "that those of the North fare not well past the Neck." She giggled softly before the shared a mildly rough and deeply passionate enough kiss. "Perhaps in order to save you I should take you as one of many wives." Theon knew this to be a jest on his part even though his manner and tone suggested otherwise. It was one of many games he liked to play with his northern 'damsels'. They in turn always played their part well for the 'heroic knight' and his vibrant 'sword'._

 _"Does my lord truly wish for me to stay?" Her question was innocent and knowing. Theon had no real control over her or much of anything for that matter. He knew the limits of what he really could and could not do; still he pushed and pushed to feel empowered. But at that moment was more pressing matters._

 _"As tempting as that is," his face a mask of mock serious, "there are others perhaps more_ willing _to tend to their lord's needs." His other hand travelled along her curvaceous side between her hip to her shoulder. His touch tingling her skin with every ministration. As she moaned and sighed out little breaths, began to innocently pout her lips._

 _"My lord has energy to spare?" She moved slowly but resolutely off the bed to a side vanity, the sway of her ass and breasts both hypnotic and intoxicating. She knew exactly how to get his blood up although he would never admit it. She was fiddling with a few items most of which appeared to be insignificant or meaningless to him. Her smile was infectious while she carried on with menial tasks; scraping of quill upon parchment, rustling and shuffling of clothes and various trinkets, still he had eyes only for her. He moved off the bed with purpose. A purpose to take her again with a will. And he would not be denied._

 _"Such willful defiance to your lord's needs," his voice taking a command-like tone as he snaked his hands around her person. His left-hand cradling roughly her right tit, his fingertips pinching teasingly the pink nipple eliciting gasps from her lips. As this happened his right hand strayed slowly southward to cup and play with her cunt that forced her to arch into and away from his body. "Should you continue this form of resistance I will be forced to find creative ways to punish you." The mere thoughts of what forms of punishment that might have made her practically gushing with fluids, Theon had half a mind to twist her about and '_ satiate' _his thirst with such nectars._

 _Plans of a different nature were being made and unfortunately for Theon he would have to postpone his time with his favorite._

 _A loud thumping fist pounded twice upon the chamber door which thus snatched the attention of both occupants in the room. Their movements and previous playfulness were instantly halted as they looked to the other, both asking in their eyes if one was expecting visitors. Once more the thumping upon the door took place. It didn't sound urgent, but it was not going away either till it was answered. With even breath and measured steps, they began to step away from each other. Theon made for his weapons' stash choosing above all else to preserve his own life should the worst happen. Natural instincts and talents of various skills instantly took hold as he deftly and quietly unsheathed his knife, holding the hilt in a reverse grip he strung his nearby bow with an arrow or two. Theon did not lack for confidence in any manner whatsoever; but given the events of the 'Greyjoy Uprising' he would not give up or give in without some sort of fight. His arrows nocked he glanced briefly to his female companion. She moved almost silent and steady, her stride and posture not once wavering or changing in the slightest as her dominant hand gracefully reached up to the curls of her hair, and as if from seemingly nowhere at all, produced a long thin needle-like blade of exotic design._

 _"Yes?" She asked nearing the door, but not answering it either in open reveal._

 _"Pardons Mistress Ros," a gruff and friendly voice responded, "but a rider has come bearing missives for yourself and the young_ **Greyjoy** _." Even through the door's muffled sound Theon could still detect the unmistaken hint of cold venom in the use of his last name. Forever more since the Uprising he, and perhaps what remained of his kin, would never know true peace or safety; always to remain outcasts, bandits, pirates or worse. Ros was different._

 _"My thanks Boseman," she politely thanked after opening the door only enough to reveal her head and the right half of the room opposite Theon. "And need I remind you that so long as I run this establishment_ Theon _is to be afforded the rights of_ all _guests that come and go." Still she remained polite enough even as she reprimanded her doorman. He voiced no response to this however though sounds of ruffled parchment and distant trumping of boots on hardwood showed that he did as bid no matter his own feelings of the subject. When she closed the door did Theon express his own side of things._

 _"That ignorant bastard will never know truly just how fortunate he was this night." He stowed his bow and arrows back into the quiver, yet his knife remained in his hand. "It seems no matter where I go or what I do my name curses' me to a solitary existence." Theon could smell and feel her womanly presence snake it's way around his chest. Her voice comely and sweet as honeyed dew._

 _"It cannot be all bad my lord," her hands slowly glided up his toned body, her fingertips sending little shivers throughout his skin, "do you still not have me?" He sighed light heartedly in response. Ros had ways to rile him up when she wanted something or calm his anger soothingly before unwanted troubles could happen. Just another reason among many as to why she, above others, was his favorite. Even fleeting as it was, he soaked in the moment and traced a rough hand up and down her curves. His vision filled with every inch of her body; not homely, majestic, or exotic to any degree of worth, but still beautiful and lithe in her own northern way. She had to be as proprietor to be just as demanding as those that resided in her care. She was in many ways his first and he would never forget it; or her._

 _"I will say whatever comes to mind," he told her, trying in his own way to be convincing, "do whatever is best for myself," he used an unoccupied hand to snatch her hair back so as to stare into her face and eyes. "And fuck whomever pleases me." She giggled at his attempts of rough play. Her own eyes looking into his as if she could read the very fabric of his soul and what lied deep within. She offered no physical resistance, but her vocal response still spoke of defiant action._

 _"And do I please my lord?" He said and did nothing. More than he would admit to anyone he was more an outcast than even the bastard of Winterfell. For all the bluff and bluster Theon was simply fooling only himself in believing to be of some importance. As much as he dreamed and so wanted to be a part of something, the ideals of living the ways of his forebears would always call to him; but never would he be one of them. Somehow, since becoming a ward, the very notion or thought of Ironborn life seems foreign. Almost like it was a lifetime ago lived by another bearing his name._

 _"What message bares importance?" His face rapidly changing expression from the lordly playful manner a mere moment ago, to something akin to exhausted annoyance of the situation. Even his voice shifting to a level of seriousness that very few, if any, would possess knowledge of. Ros huffs and pouts playfully then almost in an instant mask her expression into a matching seriousness. Their bodies instinctually move and react to the circumstance. Theon moving to gather his personal items while Ros moves to a nearby vanity desk. Sound of parchment opening indicating an obvious intent of discovery. He stands nakedly behind her, peering over her shoulder for glimpses of information._

 _"The gossipmongers speak true," she replied in a soft whisper, "I am to travel past the Neck to King's Landing." Theon could only close his eyes and trace his fingertips along the sides of her arms as he began tracing light kisses from her shoulder to her neckline. "There are those in the south I must watch out for and others to watch over." Theon simply hummed a response, his only thoughts and attention focused on the beautiful female before him. Moments like these, while frequent and often, were short lived and very much cut too short every time. Each time Theon tried to remember everything for fear that someone or something would happen to him. The Greyjoy Uprising has been the one and only excuse anyone ever needed to hunt him down or simply beat him within a hair's breadth of life. Mistress Ros was perhaps the only one to treat him as he is and not for what he was._

" _Lord Stark has summoned you young Theon," his attention snaps at the mention of being summoned and the many implications that entails, "he is entrusting you with something of great importance. Perhaps you should hasten to his summons." Theon smiles wolfishly, he kisses her with whatever passion he can muster before dressing and gathering his equipment and making his way back to Winterfell._

 _As he leaves the establishment, thinking of Ros and many other things, he barely notices a young lady of dark hair and mismatched eyes looking towards him. He pays it no mind and carries on but wonders as he mounts his horse as to why such looks seem familiar to him. He travels through and among the districts of Winter Town. At this hour of the night few, if there are any, wander about the patrolled streets alone. Those that do are the occasional drunkard, watchman, and various others that ply their nightly crafts and wiles. Theon knows many by name or face, others he associates with nicknames or other such clever things. Still, he presses on and through. A cheeky grin or small coin is tossed about to those in passing of deep familiarity; after all, many 'conquests' were made._

 _Theon could at times still not believe what it was he was seeing. A strange yet masterfully skilled blending of architectures. Northern rugged simplicity and Braavosi lined fluidity. Even after so much time has passed since both parties have put quill to parchment does it truly still baffle outsiders that two very different cultures can still somehow coexist for so long. Still Theon is of the opinion that even the oldest of friendships and alliances will fall apart for the smallest and simplest of reasons; real or imagined. Even if Theon was able to understand the concept behind the origin of such, like all things complicated he will simply shrug his shoulders and walk on. He has had to do much and more to survive through it all. Lord Stark will not be around forever, a fact that Theon endeavors to prevent for his sake more so than for the household of Stark._

 _"Hold and state your business!" Shouts from the watch guard on duty. Theon looks up to the battlement tower of Winterfell. Pulling his hood back, allowing for identification and offering a cheeky like grin to the man._

 _"Theon Greyjoy," he shouts back, "returning from Winter Town at Lord Stark's urgent summons!" Indecipherable grumbling could be heard, but Theon paid it no mind as he had heard it all before. A moment or two had passed, perhaps longer and the gate opens to allow him entry. Silly though it is he preferred to come this way then through the side passages and secondary gates._

 _"Pass and be recognized young Greyjoy," the man shouts back unto him. "You are expected in Lord Stark's solar!" And pass he did. Throughout his journey to the stables and eventually to the very door of his lords' solar he reminisced the first time he arrived in Winterfell._

 _The Uprising was brutal, merciless, and many would say a reckoning long overdue. Theon's father rose his people of the Islands in defiance of the 'restrictions' that were more and more being forced upon them by the mainlander usurpers. The Rebellion was a war that the house of Greyjoy had no real interest in; choosing a stance of neutrality as the entirety of the conflict took place on solid earth. The power of their fleets would have done little except as a means of aiding in the naval stalemate. When it was finally over the newly crowned Stag King began to set his sights on those who either sided against him or did nothing. If he desired another war or was simply looking to entertain himself, only the gods knew, but to Theon his world suddenly and surreally exploded with action._

 _People, both highborn and smallfolk, will always claim the Greyjoys began the fighting with the utter destruction of the Lannister merchant fleet and the pillaging of Lannisport. True to some degree and lies built over lies on the other. In his father's mind it was deemed a preemptive deterrence of aggressions. The whole of the fighting would take place on the vast unforgiving ocean waters. Many would succumb to its depths in the fighting; Theon's older brothers and one of his uncles. The other disappearing amidst the chaotic siege of Pyke. Of the many things he would remember that day the sight of his father cutting his mother's throat, cursing long and loud when the main gate shattered revealing an enormous shadow. This shadow was tall in stature to that of the largest mountain touching the sky. His weapon of choice was a great sword of such proportions that not even the strongest man alive could wield it alone without aid. Without a moments hesitation this same weapon split him in twain from head to cock. This shadow of death would no doubt have killed himself and his sister save for a protective light that stood in front of them blocking its path of intention._

 _Theon forcefully shook his head free from these thoughts. With Lord Stark and half of his family traveling south with the king it would fall to him to ensure the safety of the other half. So why then he needs to be told in redundancy, unless…_

 _Two guards kitted in livery and armor of the House Stark guard stood watch outside his door. As he approached, he could see the contemptuous looks of disdain upon their features, yet neither spoke a word. One guard merely thumped upon the door itself in signal. When Theon was within reach a dulled sound of 'Enter' was given. Theon would always do whatever was necessary for his own sake of survival regardless of circumstance. Now would be no different. Into the Silent Wolf's lair, he went. Whom it was that greeted him upon arrival was indeed not what Theon was expecting. He pondered if showing up naked and his cock fully alert would not have been better._

 _He simply smirked in smug satisfaction before entering the room and the door thumping shut behind him._

 **Bran's Room, Winterfell**

Falling. Falling. Falling. The last thing a boy remembers is falling. And now the only thing he knows is falling. Deep in the blackness of the void there is no death, no life, no pain, and no sorrow. There is naught but what you take with you. A sound roars above anything else; a deep endless drone of emptiness. A sound of pure silence that leaves one with only thoughts of what may or may not be. With no memory beyond the fall, how can there be thoughts? Thoughts imply dreams and dreams come from sleeping. This however is a dreamless sleep into another world beyond. A place that is said to be inhabited by spirits of those that came before us, come after us, and the gods. If ever there is a god for a place such as this and somehow finds you worthy of a journey, whispered words of wisdom…

 _Let it be Not today_ …

A boy's eyes gently rise open upon the world(s) before them. Sightless and lidless, as if two milky white orbs of glass. He sees everything and anything. All is bare before his ceaseless observation. He is but a witness to many things, majority of which he cannot decipher yet. Time has no meaning in a place as this where all happens at once and never.

 _Things that were_ …

 _Things that are_ …

 _And some that have not come to pass_ …

A shadow moves within the corner of a boy's room. As others clamber about at the suddenness of a boy's condition, they notice not a shadow slowly and silently leaving the room. But for a moment a set of mismatched eyes that could have been a shadow became a girl. One who traveled great distances, encountered many faces, and passed through many homes. A girl is tall and lithe, every step and move purposeful and confident. To be hesitant is to be one of the many faces. A girl has been taught, has been fed and clothed. A girl once sought those she thought existed. A girl once cried at night for 'another half' to make a girl whole. When a girl had finished learning, a girl became no one. But no one can survive truly and not be someone. The shadow of her stature is long indeed and cast itself upon all.

But for now, a shadow moves in unseen places and a task must be completed before a wrong can be corrected.

"Has his condition changed in the slightest?" The speakers voice did not catch a girl unaware but allowed a girl's body to react as one would expect a servant girl to react.

"Nothing new as yet milady," the previous speaker nods in thankfulness though her expressions and body betray her innermost thoughts. "Will there be anything else you require?" A moment passes before a girl's question is fully recognized in entirety.

"No," the lady shakes her head slowly, "that will be all." A girl curtseys with head bowed in respect before departing. As a girl leaves the lady sits upon a vacant seat near a little boy's bed, tears no doubt beginning to form for the boy's circumstance. At the door of a boy's room is the oldest child of the lady. He appears startled at first that another, beside whom he seeks, resided in a boy's room during such a time as this. To uphold the masquerade and possibly fluster him a girl merely curtseys and smiles shyly as she bows her head to him. A young man puffs himself, as a cock does when strutting, before returning the nod of respect; however, brief it may be.

A girl carries on paying no mind or heed to the other residents of the castle. She travels this way and that through the winding passages and halls to an overlook area observing all within vantage. The view itself would frighten most folk standing, as a girl was presently doing, at the very topmost tower of the castle. A girl's servant clothes replaced for garbs befitting one of her profession. A profession that was not a girl's place to explain nor interpret. Raised for as long as a girl can remember this was the only 'life' a girl knew. Her sharp hawk like vision searched this way and that about the expanse. Her trained senses reaching out into the night for even trace amounts of movement and sound. This was not a girl's first time out in the worlds of men, but it was her first time in the lands of 'first' men. To say anything about the experience, it was different and familiar all at once. Warm and full of open life despite the frozen chill of distrust towards the unfamiliar and unwanted.

There it was.

A shadowed movement within the courtyard towards the castle library. A girl's objective was so close; and a girl knew it. She leaped from the tower diving headfirst before flipping over into a pile of straw at its base. A girl's steps became quick as lightning, light as the very air itself. The face of another was close, a face that changed with every time no one could obtain it. None before a girl have succeeded; a girl will not fail. A girl was a shadow and moved seamless along the darkened halls and passages. Brief glances here and there to determine if see or be seen. Guards and occasional castle serfs moved about almost at random, but the long years of honed training were like natural skin and instinct. A girl was like an unseen shadow. Any who thought to see a girl would instead only see passing darkness; mere tricks of the dark light from the few torches lined on the walls or the rare light of the moon.

Regardless of means and methods a girl managed to track the many faced one to this room. It is spacious and open with many shelves of rolled parchment and thick tomes spanning along the walls on both the ground floor as well as the balcony floor above. Two rows of shelves towards the center, with long table benches to sit directly center between them. The library, a room of such wealth of knowledge that any would sacrifice greatly to peruse; even if only for a moment. Slowly and silent a girl made her way through the center whilst tracing the tips of a girl's fingers amidst a few of the leather hide books. A sliver of excited expectation rises at the perceived chance to gleam ancient histories and wisdoms long since collected over centuries. Just as the sensation arose it quickly vanished; the feeling instantaneously squashed like a flame in water. A girl was not here to learn, a girl has come for many faces. Without the many faces a girl cannot become no one.

A sense comes upon a girl. A sense of another, one who knows what is dead may never die. The presence of this one while unexpected and unwelcome is not without use. This one has been through a great deal, but not enough to measure his true worth and that worth will define him more than he knows truly. A girl slows to dead stillness allowing the few shadows of darkness to embrace a girl like a warm cloak of comfort. Soft sounds of slow footfalls while not heard by the untrained or uninitiated are still difficult at times to detect. This one however is neither subtle nor soft, the scent of a woman is prevalent upon him. A scent he does not bother masking; hence his unwelcome he is to receive. As he nears and comes to pass by a series of quick movements grunts and groans, quicker than a cat or snake strikes, and a girl's blades find tempting spots of pressure on his person; even as he blinks his eyes in rapid succession to the confusion of it all.

"The sun is shining." The words are cool and smooth to the ears. A girl has not spoken in so long that a girl has almost no memory of voiced self. A girl has no accent. None the boy would recognize anyway. The boy simply stares, struck dumbfounded. A girl waits for response, one that will determine a boy's fate. Having been trained to show no emotion a girl's face is a still mask in the dim light, but a girl's eyes reveal the true story of emotion that lies deep within.

"B-But the ice is slippery!" The boy stammers out in quick excitement, a boy's eyes glancing rapidly between a girl and a girl's blade. A girl softens her hold.

"Slippery indeed." A girl releases a boy and stands back. A girl is no longer hostile but remains alert for what lurks nearby. A girl's stance is still, a girl's blades are ready, and a girl once more looks about the room for what might be near to the unseen eye. A boy clumsily and somewhat cautiously stands to his feet. A boy pats himself; apparently checking for missing **essentials**. A pity.

"I take it 'no one' sent you?" A boy seems pleased with his poor attempt of jest. Even if a boy knows not the severity of the coming danger. None of them do.

"If no one sent me then why would a girl be here?" Curt was a girl's reply. For a library of knowledge such as this it boggled the mind why, so few could learn its hidden truths and secrets. And with a boy simply whole enough a girl continued in relative enough softness, a boy's own steps betraying his movements.

"Probably here for the same reason I am I wager." A girl stops abruptly. A girl's head turning sharply with murderous desire in a girl's eyes. A boy places one hand before him in surrender whilst the other snaps to his weapons belt. A sensible enough idea was it not for the fact a girl had disarmed him already. A boy's eyes change quickly from inquisitive confusion, to worried panic, and at last embarrassed frustration as a boy roamed his personage for its prize. Such a prize dangled before him from a girl's hand. Her gaze lightened only a little, but a girl's tone never changed in slight annoyance; a girl's face ever the stone mask.

"A boy assumes too much." Deftly and with precision the weapons were returned, thought a boy was almost clumsy in catching the blades. A girl carried on, searching about the rows and columns for her intended. A boy doing the same but not precise in knowing just what or whom it was that required searching. Mere seconds pass and a boy's curiosity gets the best of a boy.

"You know," a pause of breath as a boy measures himself, "you have not answered my question." A girl slows for the last time to gaze back upon a boy. A boy's stance is cocky and vain, knowing not true confidence even if such knowledge slapped a boy upon a cheek. A boy hides much within the eyes, they reveal what lies truly within the soul of a body. A boy fears much; mostly of a shadow. A shadow not unlike a girl but something definitively monstrous and void of empathy. A boy fears of rejection. Love; true love, is something a boy longs for but knows not how to obtain it for fear of what is needed to sacrifice for it. A rich boy in appearance, a poor boy in all things. He knows not what he already has.

 _Poor Theon_ …

"It is for the best that a boy knows nothing." A boy furrows his brows both confused and curious in a girl's meaning. "If the _**nameless**_ one knows then neither one of us will survive this night." A boy groans. No doubt tormented in not knowing what is necessary.

"You know what I think?" A boy speaks little loudly in a boy's tone. "I think it safe to say he knows already and is merely toying with us." A girl spins in place rapidly hands and arms low to a girl's side in search for the unseen more intently.

 _ **It**_ _is here_ …

"If he is here," a boy concludes, "then it might be more troublesome for you than you think." A boy stands cockily again, so sure a boy is with hands upon hips and lips curled. "You might get hurt." A girl thinks any other would find the situation humorous at the least. A girl is of the opinion that silly things as emotion; feelings, are a complete wasted effort and time. They are only useful as a tool in completing ones' mission.

"A boy needn't worry." Long blades slowly escape from their folds of safety. Pressed in a reverse grip in a girl's main hand is a sword of simple and deadly design; in a girl's offhand a girl holds a dagger of great piercing power. "A girl shall make sure his virtue remains unsoiled." Only those trained by no one could tell the faint attempt of humor in a girl's voice. A boy would object most assuredly and vehemently were it not for another.

"A girl comes for the unobtainable?" The question posed was voiced by many seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once. The once previously lit and quiet library was now cast in dark shadows with echoes flowing this way and that about the vast enough room. Every shadow looked to be made one or more persons despite not soul in mortal sight. The wind did not blow, though the few loose parchment rolls and paper stacks shuffled as if they were being disturbed by unseen movement all at once. This was a girl's test; a girl will not fail.

"A girl has come to restore balance." Even and calm, such was a girl's training. A boy began panicking near a girl; breath quickening with every twist and turn to see the unseen.

"The young one need not be here to witness a girl's death." The many voices spoke in unison. The smell of fear was permeating. "Unless a boy willingly faces death." The voices taunted cruelly and jovially at a boy's determination. Poor boy; one-part brave, three parts fool. A girl will _not_ fail.

"What is dead may never die!" A boy shouts, drawing one at a time a boy's weapons of choice. "Show yourself craven!" Admirable, but mistaken for what comes next.

"Well here I am boy." At the sound of a singular voice, rough and salty, a boy and girl both turn to its source. There upon one of the walkways stands a man of rough caliber and appearance. Leathers and wrappings of various materials, including armor, are indicative of an Iron Islander. Long black hair both salted with grey and matted, the man's face gruff and furious as if disappointed with what is before him. "Satisfied?"

A boy's look conveyed what thought ran through a boy's mind without being spoken aloud. And yet a girl would know it to be true and false. Given time and access to certain secrets even a girl can become that which she now hunts. But such knowledge bares its own paths of corruption. Such is the blasphemy of being nameless. Forgotten and lost to no one, especially the many-faced god.

"This cannot be." A boy finally speaks, and a man barely raises an eyebrow. "You should be dead; I saw it happen before my eyes when I was a child years ago!" A slight anger filled desperation builds in a boy's words. A boy stands firm and resolute with a boy's body shaking with emotion. A man scoffs at such a wasted show of strength.

"What are our words?" Silence passes. "Speak the words boy!" Anger rises like a sudden tide from a man's words.

"W-we Do Not Sow!" A boy stutters in speech, shocked by what a boy sees and hears.

"We Do Not Sow." A man grunts in acknowledgement. "We do not plant and grow roots as green landers. We pay the iron price. We take what we want; what is owed!" A man slowly stalks along the landing, measuring both a boy and girl. "You were craven the moment you were birthed."

"No."

"Your brothers were **true** Iron Born. Dying with blades in hand, war cries spilled from their mouths and plunging forward into the fray against their enemies with sea salt spraying about them. Baptized were they by the Drowned God for what is dead may never die."

"No, you didn't know your sons as I did." A boy slowly starts shaking in denial to what a man speaks.

"I knew they were strong!" Shouts a man in raw vehemence pausing in step to grab the rail with spittle flying with every word. "And in this world the strong always take what is owed; the iron price."

"And what of mother?!" A boy cries in delirium, momentary grief shaking a boy's mind to the core. "What price was owed when you took her life?!" A boy's blade points accusing at the nameless disguised as a boy's father. A man scowls in bitter loathing. With eyes trained upon a boy and girl a man steps around a nearby pillar to reveal a woman. Dark auburn brown hair, eyes dripping in resolute sadness, features more soft than rough; but no less salted. A long simple gown befitting a lady in place of the sea-borne armor.

"My son," a boy gasps silent in recognizing a woman's voice, "my little Theon grown." A woman steps lightly into the light. A girl's eyes narrow; theatricality and deception, powerful tools against the uninitiated. A girl _is_ initiated and _**will**_ _**not**_ fail. "I was taken as a salt wife, but I am still your mother. Believe me when I tell you that your father was merciful than what fate awaited me at the hands of the Lannisters and Barratheons."

"I would have protected you."

"Protect?" A lady asks. "Protect?!" A slight shriek creeping in tone of a lady's voice. "Your brothers and uncles had promised me as much. And our family's bannermen protection against the mainlanders." A creeping look of disbelieving disapproval showed on a lady's face. A sad somewhat condescending smile, yet the eyes; always the eyes, showed disgust and regret. "I lost my hope for living when my sons were killed at sea. You," a lady points an accusing finger down upon a boy, "cowered in a corner protecting your useless sister." A lady straightens herself as a boy begins to silently sob and fall to pieces, staring to the cobblestone floor in grief-stricken remembrance.

"And of course," once more a lady steps toward another pillar and passes through as a girl. Youthful and strong with waving black hair a girl's figure and features more boyish yet still discernably pleasing to the eye. "Let us not forget I who was _sold_ into brothels to scratch a barely existed way of living." A boy does not bother to look anymore. Visibly shaken to the foundation of all a boy thought a boy knew.

"That cannot be true!" A boy cries with a few tears spilling from closed eyelids.

"Search yourself brother, you know it to be true." A girl moves quickly along the walkway to be nearer to a boy as a girl speaks. "As you were spirited away with the Starks, I was left to placate the Lannisters. I was passed from one lion soldier to another. When they were finished the soldiers of other banners soon had their turn. Afterwards I was sold to the highest bidder as damaged goods in one brothel or another." A girl possessed not the expression of emotion that poured through a girl's voice. Instead a girl stood stoic in achievement at a boy's torment of sorrow.

"Aaaahhhhhhh…" A boy drops the tools needed. Hands grasp to a boy's head in pain, all in anguish to the sins of the past. Seeing a boy succumb to this pain seems to rise something within a girl. A deep feeling of familiarity of what might have been or could already be. A girl _begins_ to _feel_.

 _No more_ …

Reacting by second nature alone does a girl upon the walkway narrowly avoid by the smallest of margins the three knifelike daggers that streak through the air and finding purchase instead in the wooden shelf behind. A girl turns ever slow and purposeful to glare viciously upon a girl who now crouches next to a boy protectively cradling a boy's form to a girl's chest. Words of an unknown language pour forth in whispered tones from a girl's lips to a boy's ears. After a girl finishes, a girl rises to a frighteningly towering height that a girl did not think to believe possible.

"This boy has suffered. And to some extent continues to suffer." A girl now looked defiant upon another girl. "All that he once knew gone forever. All that he knows lies ahead with those who once called him enemy now friend." Eyes begin to narrow in rage. "He has chosen his path, though he does not yet realize what that path entails. It is the right of every mortal that walks this earth to be responsible for their own life and end." Once more a girl prepares a girl's chosen blades. "I will not follow your path; **I WILL NOT BECOME NAMELESS!** " The echoed challenge reverberates around the chamber and quite possibly throughout the tunnels of the castle. Several long heartbeat moments pass before a decision has been made. A girl steps slightly back from the railing to seemingly blend amongst the shadows. More moments pass before a dark cloaked and hooded figure emerges. Within it's hands a long ornate golden steel dagger. The figure takes one step, leaning ever closely to the rail, and whispers its voice in every direction. In the light the hood still covers the figure's face in a somewhat perpetual shadow that never fades.

" _ **Then let us begin**_." The figure vaults head over heels, landing with cat like grace on its feet. A girl wasting no time at all sprinting forward to intended target. Blade meets blade and a girl _will_ , _not_ , _**fail**_!

 **Bran's Room, Winterfell**

The room was greatly warm, even for the time of season. The fireplace crackling, lighting a great portion of the room alongside the few candles. Catelyn chose this self-imposed vigilance at her son's bed. Never straying from her child's limp form beneath his fur skinned covers. Her mind awash with many thoughts, worries, memories of years past, and random fears of what ifs. She was, for all intents, beside herself with grief; as if her son would never wake. Over and over she made, unmade, then made again various prayer wheels to the Seven. She was told many times in the years she resided in the North that the gods of others had no power here, save for only a few places in the southern most areas near the Neck and sea. The North made many friends and enemies during the wars of faith, but Catelyn was a Tully. And Tully's are known for their strict adherent discipline.

 _Family_. _Honor_. _Duty_.

Over the course of her vigil these words of her family house became an ever-recurring prayer, almost as if the words themselves would provide either an answer to her woes or relieve the burden of her sorrow. Such as it was, nothing it seemed would alleviate her from this grief. Food and drink could not sustain her, rest and comfort would bring no peace, and were it not for her husband's orders to post guards; both in and out of the room, she would have bolted and shut out the world outside to protect…

 _Brandon_ …

Her time alone brought back haunting memories of regrets she believed were purged from her soul. Always her image of Brandon, before his end at the hands of the Mad King, was someone she loved truly and deeply. Although her marriage to Ned was difficult at first, she would eventually come to love him whole heartedly without regret or doubt. But there was those first year or two of her every being longing for the Stark she could not have. Both Stark brothers had different feelings for a different southerner. Brandon shared many a physical moment with Ashara Dayne, whilst Ned could only suffer in silent unrequited love. Ashara; however, has claimed otherwise. But rumors of her bearing a bastard wolf child that was stillborn speaks differently. Whatever his reasons Ned was right in denying that woman the joy of raising her children. If for no other reason than for stealing the wild affections of her beloved. Ned now and then still asks why their second son be named Bran. To some degree she asks the same.

Though in the end the gods have judged cruelly and Bran, _**her**_ Bran, must suffer for it.

Howling sounds off in the distance through the half-shuttered window. Clutching her ears in searing pain and panic she almost screams to shut them out. Many attempts have her son Robb made for her to return to the others. Lady Perturabo has made numerous inquires and has stayed with her on a few occasions to stand watch over. They do not understand; none understand. How could they?

 _Brandon_ …

The howling now grows and builds in sound as a new commotion carries with it. She clutches still to her head before finally shaking her head, and groaning with effort, rises from her seat to gaze out into the inner yards and workings of Winterfell. While not high enough to see everything happening below, the many shapes and forms in the firelight—

 _Fire_ …

 _Fire_?

 _ **FIRE**_!

She looks about this way and that. Dozens of varying shouts and calls carry on the slowly building wind. Her son Robb is unmistakable as he orders about with Maester Luwin in tow trying to save everything important and any souls trapped in the building blaze. Russ, Dacey and the others come sprinting from differing parts of the castle to aid in the efforts. Theon at some point comes running out from the burning inferno, seemingly hunched over and limping to some degree. Robb and the others go to aid him, but in urgent haste he shoves them away. Theon's blade is drawn; apparent blood on it and all Cat can think is that he was the culprit behind this. She asked Ned why the boy had to live, his only reply; 'he is meant for some greater purpose that is not for us to understand or yet be revealed.' Anger and confusion mixed with Cat's earlier feelings makes for a dangerous combination. It is only when Theon shouts something that she notices Robb and Russ staring almost directly at her. A couple moments and the two are running towards her direction.

 _Why_?

A small scuffling sound emanates from behind her. She turns abruptly to chastise who would disturb her when the words suddenly catch in her throat. There in front of her standing near the door's entranceway is a rough, dirtied, world worn looking scamp. The rags he wears are so haggard and filthy that even calling them rags does it an injustice. The hide jerkin he wears over his shirt is crusted, along with his loose covered cap and trousers. The crust is a disgusting mix of shit dirt or mud and blood.

 _Blood_ …?

"A lady was not meant to be here." The voice was rough and worldly. The chilling sensation of his tone was sharp like a knife's edge. His simple words were enough to catch her attention to his face. The face was sad and weary, leathery with age, gruff and scraggly in some patches; his eyes told a different tale. His face did not match to what lied in the orbs. Hollow, deep black of darkness, though in this light Cat would swear to the old gods and new that it was light trickery. But the feeling that this person was somehow void of life still somehow resonated with her mind. Quickly glancing about she now realized that much of his person was covered in blood; both fresh and dried. An exotically well crafted and ornate looking dagger clutched firmly in his hand, the blade dripping in fresh blood. At the sight of the bloodied blade she thinks that the guards would have dealt with them, but there by the door on the floor were the bloodied and unmoving forms of the Wolf Guards. Pools of blood congregating around them.

Everyone deals with life and death differently. Catelyn more than some has been in situations that required split decisions. Her uncle Brynden during the infamous 'War of the Fishes' taught her some hard truths. One such truth, that a woman who _truly_ protects her child would kill without pity or remorse. Almost any who claimed otherwise either knows not what they speak or has never found themselves in such circumstances. Cat will never know where such a strength came from or what possessed her to do it, but without thought of consequence she lunges for the bladed weapon.

" **NO**!" Shouting and screaming the word over and over, grunting with desperate energy as her hands clasp deathly tight to the blade itself. The scamp himself trying to grapple and fight off her grips for the weapon. " **NO**!" She screamed once more as down the staircase passageway she hoped with every fiber that someone would come to her son's aid. She feared not so much her own life, but the life of Bran.

 _ **NO**_ … _Not_ _again_ … _Not_ _**BRAN**_ …

In a quick flash of movement, a searing pain slides through the palms of her hands. Catelyn collapses to the floor with her hands trembling before her eyes in pain. Above her the scamp stands over her with dagger poised to strike.

"A lady delays what is inevitable," he says between breaths, "a lady's son must die for the others—" he was incapable of finishing his words. Neither were aware of lumbering steps or pattered feet on stone. The golden form of hair and fur flashed past Cat's vision, growling and snarls mixed with pained screams and groaning effort. Even as she tried to recognize what it was transpiring a hulking muscled form stormed past the entrance to where the fight was taking place. More shouts snarls and pained groans, but with a loud giant like war cry a loud snap-crunch sound brought nothing more.

Silence seemed to reverberate around the room. A couple pitter patters of pawed feet neared towards Cat before jumping up on Bran's bed. Curling on its sides the golden direwolf lays protectively at its master's feet, eyes staring straight at her. The giant form rising from the floor slowly with its gait slowing his intended movements. He steps over to Bran's still sleeping form, as he nears Cat tries to stand to protect her son.

"Bran!" She involuntary shouts catching the gaze of Hodor, the half giant manservant looking his usually confused self. But though he is simple minded he looks at her frowning, almost as if the name she cried was meant more for him than her young son. He looks back to Bran before looking back to her in slow recognition. His hand rises in a peaceful calming motion and slowly places it to his chest.

"Hodor," he says in his simple speech. "Hodor," once more he says only this time firmly pressing his chest with his hand. She does not understand but creeps slowly nearer. She takes a moment examining the scene before her and all it entails before something reacts within. It is muted and strained at first, steadily rising in pitch and timbre. A sudden urge and desire overcome her body. Tears fall from her eyes in waves, her bloodied hand goes to cover her mouth to silence her cries; but the sound released is the pent-up mix of emotions that unceasingly pours from her. She collapses once more shaking in heaves in raw uncontrolled hysterics.

When Robb and the others come upon the room, what essentially lies before them is a protective pair of half giant and direwolf around a sleeping boy. A woman crying and laughing unendingly in grief with bloodied hands. A pile of bloodied and dirtied rags by the corner, a beautifully ornate but blooded dagger nearby. And lastly the four dead bodies of guardsmen. What no one seems to notice save for one individual is the fact that Bran's eyes are open. Pale milky white eyes stare up towards the heavens. What is dead may never die but rises again stronger.

 **Author's Note:** _FINALLY! At last I have returned and more than a thousand apologies to you my dear readers and followers. I will not bore you with excuses or explanations, I simply ask for patience and forgiveness as I know I am (doing mental math poorly) about five or six months behind schedule of writing. Rest assured I will not stop writing, but like everyone else life happens, and I am not professional in any of this. I simply allow my imagination to wander and hope I don't stray too far. With great luck I will post more before New Year. Again, much pleading of forgiveness._

 _Sincerely, Marinebrat25_


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